At World's Beginning
by Wolveria
Summary: When a man dies, the story of his life is ended. For better or for worse, the ink is dried and the book is closed. ...except when, as the unfortunate case may be, said man dies on a cursed ship that decides it's not done with him quite yet. James Norrington's death is only the beginning of his problems. [Norrington/Mermaid OC]
1. As One Door Closes

_"It's too late to earn my forgiveness."_

Even now, after all that had transpired and all the hurts and injuries he had accumulated, she could wound him far deeper with words than any edged steel ever had.

"I had nothing to do with your father's death."

Regardless, he should have prevented it. He knew that, and his next words reflected it.

"But that does not absolve me of my other sins."

And they were many in the counting. More than could warrant forgiveness. Or redemption, for that matter.

"Come with us."

Those three simple words ignited a flame of hope he dared not warm himself with. Her eyes could almost make him believe.

"James, come with me."

_Do not make me dare to hope,_ he thought, heart pounding painfully in his chest. _Do not be so cruel as to allow me to believe you ever cared for me the way I care for you._

But his traitorous heart made him believe, for an instant, that Elizabeth was asking because she could not bear to leave him behind. That there was a small part of her that truly wished for him to leave the ship, leave this empty life behind, and go with her into her world of lawless freedom.

_"Who goes there!"_

James pulled Elizabeth behind him and craned his head upwards, drawing his sword as he met eyes with the cursed sailor who had shouted the warning. He watched for a few seconds more and then vanished.

They were out of time.

"Go. I will follow."

"You're lying."

Of course he was. If it was the only way to get her off the _Dutchman_, he would tell a thousand lies. Skew a thousand truths. He just wanted her to _go_. But she wouldn't. The one time James wanted her dispassion and disinterest, she would not grant it to him.

James turned to the woman he had once wanted more than any honor, any commission, any damned medal or title. His heart weighed with the sorrow and the guilt that were the culminations of his actions. If he had not made so many errors and lapses in judgement, if he had lived a more honest life… would she have looked at him like this much sooner? Would they have ever had a chance?

She stared back at him, molten brown eyes in the dark, willing him to come with her. Silently pleading he would listen.

_Why?_ he wondered morosely. _Why do you look at me that way now, when it is far too late?_

"Our destinies have been entwined, Elizabeth," he intoned softly as he stared deep into those wide eyes. "…but never joined."

He did then the one thing he had never been brave enough to attempt before. Too bound by propriety and chained by decorum.

James leaned forward and captured her lips in a kiss. It was a bittersweet thing, more bitter than sweet as its only purpose was to say farewell. He sensed his time was running short, and he was afraid, so afraid, and maybe this way… this way, a piece of him would go with her.

He pulled away and studied her face as if memorizing lines on a map—the shape of its slopes and curves, committing to memory the dark waters of her eyes. Elizabeth couldn't seem to look away, as if she was seeing him clearly for the first time. Perhaps, she was.

"Go, _now,"_ he ordered her, facing back toward the ship where he knew reinforcements would be coming any moment. For a moment he heard no movement from her, and he wondered if she would simply refuse to leave without him. But then he heard her climb onto the railing and then onto the rope, and something within him relaxed.

The respite was brief as a shadow separated itself from the darkness. The crewman had come to investigate.

James pointed his sword at the man, low and steady, ready to defend Elizabeth's retreat with his dying breath.

"Back to your station, sailor," he commanded, voice ringing out the way it used to when he would give orders to his own men. Back when he had men to command.

The crewman seemed perplexed as he watched Elizabeth shimmy down the towrope. He looked between her, and James, and then back again, lifting an arm to indicate his confusion.

"No one leaves the ship," he murmured in a low, raspy tone. James' sword was now directed at the man's misshapen face, and he noted there was an orange starfish bordering his right eye. James suppressed an involuntary shudder.

"Stand down. That's an _order."_

When was the last time anyone had followed his orders without question or complaint? _Davy Jones,_ he thought, when James had ordered him to tow the _Empress_. How the good captain would be amused to see what was transpiring now.

"That's an order," the man muttered to himself, drawing his eyes down to stare at the object in his hand. It looked to be a wooden pike, or a spear, and James couldn't imagine where he had gotten it. Then he looked up, his gaze more focused as he trained his pale, unnerving eyes over James' face.

"Part of the crew, part of the ship. Part of the crew, part of the ship."

His voice grew bolder with each repeat of the mantra, and James had to fight the urge to not retreat as his voice rose in volume.

"Part of the crew, part of the ship! _Part of the crew, part of the ship!"_

_"Steady, man!"_ James ordered, but it did no good. A frenzy had taken hold of Jones' crewman, and he shuffled forward, pale and unnatural and terrifying.

"Part of the crew, part of the ship! All hands! _Prisoner escape!"_ he shouted so loudly there was no doubt he would be heard. James pulled out his double-barrel flintlock and pointed it at the sailor's chest

"Belay that!"

_"James!"_

He turned at the sound of Elizabeth's scream, no more able to resist it than the tide can the moon. His mind was embroiled in panic at thought of her recapture. Jones had taken them prisoner this time; next time, he would ensure there was no escape.

It was when Elizabeth began to crawl along the rope, toward him instead of in the direction of safety, that he made his decision. He spared one last glance at the cursed sailor to be sure he had enough time to act, and then turned back to Elizabeth and the tow lines that still tethered her to him.

Grief crumpled his features as he he aimed his pistol upward and pulled the trigger. The resounding boom sounded like a funeral cannon.

The towrope snapped, dropping Elizabeth and the rest of her crewmates into the sea.

_Safe. She will be safe now._

James turned back to the sailor who had sounded the alarm, raised his sword… and paused, confusion overcoming him. All the air seemed to have spilled from his lungs, vanished along with the strength in his limbs. It was really quite puzzling.

As he slid to the floor, his back braced against the railing, he thought he could hear Elizabeth crying his name.

The _Dutchman_ crew came for him now, slowly moving forward from the shadows.

"The admiral's dead?" one of them asked. Was he? He couldn't really tell. Why couldn't he move? Why did his bones feel so heavy, his hands full of lead, and his eyelids the heaviest of all?

As the crewman began to whisper that he was dead ("_the admiral's dead!"),_ James decided he should investigate the matter for himself. He lowered his eyes and was mildly alarmed to see the pike the sailor had been carrying was now embedded firmly through his sternum.

He raised his eyes again when he heard a sound, as dreadful as it was familiar.

_Thump-clack. Thump-clack. Thump-clack._

James heard the cursed crew yell something else, but he was having difficulty focusing. What were they saying? It didn't matter, nothing mattered, because now the cruel captain of the_ Dutchman_ was crouched beside James, and his monstrous face filled his entire world.

"James Norrington."

His name was spoken almost softly. Respectfully. He focused on Jones' face. It was quickly becoming the only thing he could see.

"Do you fear death?"

It was difficult to breathe. His lungs could only pull air in jagged spurts, disobedient as he willed them to expand and contract. As air became slowly denied to him, James realized that he _did_ fear death. He was completely terrified. He did not want to die.

But he would never, ever give Jones the satisfaction.

James found his ability to speak was long past, so he answered in the only way he could: he thrust his sword into Jones' chest, feeling the steel blade cut through the flesh with sickening ease. His fingers slipped from the grip and his vision of Jones' baleful face receded into darkness.

A pair of eyes, the color of dangerous, capsizing icebergs, was the last thing James saw.

A pair of eyes, stormy as the waters of the Northern Sea, was the first thing James saw when he opened his eyes once more.

* * *

**_Thank you and welcome! I've had this idea in my head for a few months and decided to write the majority of it for Nano 2018. And unlike most of my WIPs, I actually finished it._**

**_If all goes well, this will be part 1 of a larger series made of 4 stories centered around James' adventures. James Norrington deserved better, and I'm a huge sucker for mermaids, so I thought, why not? Let James be happy and fall in love with a mermaid. Especially one that's sort of terrifying._**

**_I hope you have as much fun reading this as I did writing it. All mistakes belong to me; my beta readers do their best to make my stories manageable enough to read, and they are wonderful, fantastic people who I will credit at the end._**

**_As always, you can find me on tumblr at Wolveria or TrashMenOfMarvelTV if you want to say hello._**

**_Now, onward!_**


	2. Here, There Be Mermaids

**35 Years Previous**

**In the Year of Our Lord 1694**

The last thing Second Mate Franklin Sharp had expected from the day's events was for the _Intrepid _to find itself a prisoner—and a woman at that.

It was the morrow after their harrowing survival of a terrible storm, one which Franklin had been sure would be their end. But they had survived, managed to keep all their masts, and had had a few hours rest before the lookout had shouted, _"Man overboard!"_

The sky was a pretty pale blue and the winds good and true, so there should be no reason for any man to be overboard. Waves lapped gently at the hull of the _Intrepid_, tamed after its turbulent wrath the night previous.

Captain Ulysses stood in front of the gunwale next to Franklin, extending his spyglass to verify what the lookout had spotted.

So, not a man overboard, then—_a man adrift at sea._ How anyone could have survived the storm puzzled Franklin, but even he could see with his naked eye a pale form huddled on an outcrop near the straits they had come upon.

"Take two men and check for survivors," the captain spoke in a weathered voice, never moving his gaze from the rocks ahead. Franklin acknowledged his orders and grabbed Mako and Rochester, two Jack-tars who he could depend on in times of trouble. Not that Franklin expected there to be any trouble, and least… not until their longboat drew closer to the cluster of rocks. And It wasn't the rocky waves as they drew closer to the outcropping that rattled him.

"'s a woman!" Rochester exclaimed in a voice somehow filled with both unease and awe.

"Aye, Roch, I know a woman when I spot one," Franklin said with impatience. For clearly it was woman, fainted away and marooned on the rocks.

"Sure 'bout that?" Rochester responded, a smirk painted across his face. "The peach fuzz on yer face says otherwise."

"Move us closer so I can see if she's still amongst the living," Franklin ordered, ignoring the jab. People always underestimated him for his youth and he'd grown a thick skin because of it. Besides, it was better to be underestimated. Folks who didn't take him seriously were the easiest to surpass and push aside in his quest of ambition.

However, in this situation, Franklin's youth might very well work against him. Seamen tended to become particularly stupid where women were concerned, and any question to his authority might turn a tenuous situation into a terrible one. He wasn't sure which was preferable—for the woman to be alive or dead, considering what might await her back on the ship.

And there was the matter of the ferocity of the storm. It was unlike anything Franklin had seen before—all different colored lightning, rain that flew sideways in angry streaks, and even a squall that descended from the clouds and gave them all a scare when it ventured close to their ship.

Franklin grew more and more disquieted. The woman was as naked as the day she was born, with yellow hair and skin pale and free of blemishes. In fact, it was only now beginning to turn pink from exposure to the merciless sun. This was not the complexion of a woman who was at sea, or one that even ventured out into the sunlight.

What was more alarming than that was, from what he could see from her curled position, she was completely unharmed.

Franklin reached a hand out to steady himself against the outcropping as he tested the integrity of the rock. It bore his weight and so he began to climb, and saw from only a few feet away that her cheeks were rosy with life. He waved the nearby seagulls away, shouting, "Away, buzzards! No free meals for you here today!"

"What have ye found?" Mako said from behind him, and he turned to see Rochester had remained in the longboat to make sure it didn't drift away. Or, by the blood that had drained from his face, to stay away from their strange discovery.

"Hand me that tarp," Franklin ordered rather than answer Mako's question. Mako didn't look entirely happy about this, but he turned back and retrieved the bit of canvas from Rochester, and then handed it to the second mate. Franklin untied the ropes and pulled open the cloth. It would have to do, for he was not about to bring a naked woman aboard.

As Franklin began to cover her within the stiff cloth, Mako stood at his elbow and whispered, "Lord have mercy on my soul. How did she get all the way out here?"

"I imagine her ship went down in the storm," Franklin responded as he finished wrapping her up like a babe in swaddling. It didn't bother him any to handle the woman's nakedness; he'd helped his mum raise his baby sisters and he wasn't averse to seeing bare skin. It helped that there was something about the woman that was reminiscent of his baby sisters. Perhaps the way she had been curled like a child, or that her face was smooth like that of a brand new babe.

Apparently, Rochester was not of the same mind about the woman's innocence.

"Ye-yer bringing her aboard?" he asked, an unmistakable waver in his voice. Franklin didn't bother to give him a glare—his displeasure was in his voice. He may have been a youth of seventeen years, but Franklin was already gaining the authoritative qualities of a natural-born leader.

"Aye. And if you have a complaint, you ought not to speak it aloud. The captain is not in the business of leaving good people to die when they could easily be brought aboard."

Franklin brushed the yellow hair out of the woman's face, and that's when he noticed something to mar the perfection of her smooth skin. He ran his thumb down the side of her neck, just behind her ear, and he felt hard ridges. He'd know that sensation anywhere, as he had gutted his fair share of fish.

"Yer assuming she's good people," Rochester muttered stubbornly. Franklin was so distracted he didn't respond until the next words were spoken. "It bodes ill, findin' a woman in the middle o'r the ocean after a storm such as we had. And a naked one at that."

Franklin had neither the time nor the patience for yellow-bellied curs, so he lifted the woman into his arms, shifting her weight to a more tenable position so they wouldn't spill off the side of the outcropping and into the churning waves. But as he began to step carefully back to the longboat, Mako stood in his way.

"You better think long and hard about yer next words, Mako," Franklin said so quietly he could barely be heard over the sound of the waves against the rocks.

"She could be a witch," the timid crewman said as he looked downward, unable to meet Franklin's stern eye. "No man or woman of the mortal realm could survive that storm without so much as a mark."

"That's for the captain to decide," Franklin responded, fingers reflexively gripping his bundle tighter as he looked first at Mako, and then to Rochester. "Not lily-livered cowards who dare call themselves sailors."

"What's that?" Rochester's face grew flush from the barb, but Franklin paid no heed. He needed to put an end to this foolishness here and now, or the woman who survived the storm would end up dead by more sinister means.

"Shall I tell the captain you disobeyed orders, then?" Franklin asked lightly. This was the last time he would ask Rochester for anything, he decided. The man was an excellent sailor, but apparently reefing sails and hoisting clewlines was where his dependability ended.

Rochester broke eye contact first, looking away as he gripped the oar tightly in his hands.

"There be no need to go sayin' things like that," he finally responded, the proper amount of contriteness in his voice. Still, Franklin decided to keep an eye on him, not trusting the way the man shifted in fear as Franklin sat next to him.

But it wasn't the second mate that Rochester was scared of—it was the unconscious, helpless lass they had rescued.

_Superstitious, feckless cowards,_ Franklin thought unkindly as the two crewmen rowed the longboat back to the _Intrepid_. His patience for old wives' tales and the cowardice they drew from men—who face real bodily danger daily without breaking a sweat and yet succumb to tales of ghosts—was at an all-time low. Especially how given the night before, half of the crew had wept for their mothers and the other have had prayed to their respective gods. It had been an enduring trial to force them to keep the ship in one piece, and Franklin thought he had done it admirably, especially when the captain had remained safely below in his cabin (and the first mate had spent most of his time hiding in the fo'c'sle).

However, if Franklin was hoping Captain Ulysses would present a more reasonable front when they returned, he was sorely mistaken.

"What… is that?"

The captain stared at Franklin's bundle as he came onboard, eyeing the damp, yellow hair that hang over the edges of the cloth.

"A woman, sir," Franklin said with a little too much sincerity, but the captain caught nothing amiss in his tone. Ulysses reached forward and pulled back the corner flap, exposing the face of their rescued catch.

"So it would seem," Ulysses responded dryly, looking over her features as one would examine a particularly rotten oyster. "And why is there a woman aboard my ship?"

"Because you ordered her brought onboard. Sir."

Ulysses gave him a cool gaze that Franklin knew meant there was troubled waters ahead.

"I am well aware of what I ordered, Sharp. But I would have expected you to have enough foresight to inquire for new orders before bringing a strange woman aboard my ship."

Franklin met that steely gaze with a more tempered one, even though his dislike for the captain was beginning to converge on the territory of loathing. Ulysses Kipper was a decorated retired officer of the Royal Navy turned privateer. The men said he loved serving the Crown too much to spend the last years of his life doing anything as frivolous as relaxing. And if the crew ever made the mistake of seeming to forget what a decorated ex-marine he was, Ulysses would remind them by scrubbing them down with insults, comparing them to the marines that had previously served under him and saying they were more akin to "mangy dogs and flea-bitten rats."

Franklin didn't care for pompous men who flouted their authority. But he was a fresh-faced youth of seventeen years, and no one cared about his thoughts on the matter.

"I believe she's a survivor of the storm, sir. Her ship most likely went down and currently lay at the bottom of the ocean, along with the rest of her people."

"Did you see evidence of wreckage?" Ulysses asked, his words clipped with impatience.

"No, sir. But the debris could have been carried out with the currents."

Franklin shifted from one foot to another. His arms were beginning to ache from the weight of his burden, but he would rather his arms fall off than be relieved of the weight. Because most likely, that would mean the bundle was being thrown overboard, along with the woman.

"So you merely _assume _she was onboard a vessel," the captain said as he began to slowly pace across the deck, hands held behind his hands.

"I… well, yes. Where else could she have come from?"

Perhaps this had been the wrong thing to ask, because Ulysses stopped pacing and turned his head to stare balefully, first at him, and then the unconscious woman.

"Where indeed? It is not a question I would ask lightly, especially considering the… dark nature of last night's storm."

Franklin stared at him. He would expect such suspicions from the crew, but the captain, who prided himself on being a clever, learned man?

"You can't honestly believe there is anything _untoward_ about her appearance, do you? Sir?" he added when he realized his tone was bordering on disrespectful.

"That's not a risk I'm willing to accept," Ulysses answered, his cold blue eyes sending a shiver down Franklin's spine despite the warmth of the day. "Take her down to the brig."

"But," Franklin began, his voice suddenly too high as it betrayed his youth. "You can't—"

"Are you refusing to obey a direct order, Sharp?"

Ulysses hovered over him, his bearded face inches from Franklin's, and the young man realized how out of his depth he was. Scheming and wheedling his way to be the captain's second mate, especially at his age, was one thing. This was another thing entirely, and he would have to play his cards right or he and the woman might end up as a tasty meals for the fishes.

"No, sir," he responded softly, gaze lowered. Unfortunately, this meant he was looking at the woman in his arms, and he abruptly felt pity for her. _Perhaps you were best left to rot in the sun. _An unkind thought, but not unreasonable given the circumstances.

"Then what are you waiting for? Take her below!"

Franklin feigned a wince, mumbled, "yes, sir," and walked around the captain to retreat into the shadows and the bowels of the ship where he would stow away their captive. Once below, Franklin gently set the woman on the ground as he retrieved the cell door keys, his wince now authentic as he looked about at the conditions of the brig. It wasn't often used, and even if it had been, the captain wasn't a man to waste resources on making prisoners more comfortable in their confinement.

He laid the woman down on the floor of the dank cell as gingerly as he could, not entirely sure there was a point in taking care. It was possible she would never awaken, and Franklin antagonizing the captain would end up being for naught. But there was always the chance she would live, and if she did, she would need an ally. Especially considering the secret he had discovered and omitted from telling his captain.

Franklin reached out and gently moved her head to the side, carefully folding the curl of her ear forward so he could get a better look. He needn't have bothered, since his findings were in alignment with his original assessment. The captain was right about one thing—this was no woman, as indicated by the hardened slits hidden behind her ears. Slits that could be nothing other than what they appeared to be.

Franklin was touching the dried-out gills of a fish.

The gills were vestigial, perhaps, as they didn't seem to go very deep and he couldn't imagine how she would breathe through them. But they were unmistakable. He moved her head back into place, glanced around to be sure he was alone, and allowed himself to utter a single word, spoken in quiet wonderment as he studied the face of a being who shouldn't exist.

_"Mermaid."_

* * *

_**We're getting a first glimpse of our mermaid this chapter, but don't worry, James' fate will be revealed next chapter. Flashback sections such as this one will be labeled as "Then" chapters, and they will be less frequent as the story goes on. I wrote it this way to show the parallels between their two stories, and I hope the switches feel natural and aren't too jarring.**_


	3. Another Door Opens

**Now**

Captain Franklin Sharp strode across the deck of his vessel, and though he strode with strong purpose his steps were not as smooth as they used to be. He came to a stop beside his navigator and rubbed at the ache at his right hip. Both of his knees were doing him no favors either. He released a soft sigh of complaint and gazed out at the waters, noting the unnatural fog they were still mired in. The bright moon, somewhere overhead and obscured by the clouds, cast a paltry loom over the dense mist.

He glanced at his navigator, also at his side, as she leaned against the gunwale and gazed over the unnaturally still waters.

"How bad is the pain tonight?" she asked before he could question her for the 49th time if this direction was the safest course.

Franklin gave a quiet chuckle—it never ceased to amaze him how she could predict the state of his joints as accurate as she could the weather.

"Fairly. It's the mist, I think," he said. Franklin rubbed the back of his neck and silently cursed at his taut muscles.

"It's not the mist," she answered evenly. Her eyes never wavered from the night, and the unease Franklin felt was absent from her features. "The veil between the worlds, the living and the dead, has become thin."

She often said strange things like that, but only to him, and only when they were alone. She had learned long ago how men reacted at such words, and it had been a hard lesson indeed.

Franklin waited for her to speak, knowing it was best not to rush her and she would come to her point when she was ready. It didn't take her long, and there was an edge to her voice.

"Something has happened in these waters. A… shift. It feels… disturbed." She trailed off, brows furrowed with troubled thought.

"The men have been making bold claims these past few days," Franklin ventured forth, hoping that would prompt her to say more. "Tales of glimpses of dead men in boats and ghosts floating under the water."

"The crew is not wrong. For once."

A chill went down his spine; he wasn't necessarily afraid of the dead, he had lived his life well enough that he knew most wouldn't take vengeance against him. His concern lay with the living, and more pointedly, his crew and what actions they would take if they continued to sail these apparently haunted waters.

"Perhaps we should divert our heading for a safe port," he offered. It wasn't the first time he'd made this suggestion, and her answer was the same as before.

"No."

Franklin sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. No other person, be they man, woman, or child, could speak to him the way she did and get away with it. But she could ask the moon of him and he would gladly fetch it from the sky. That was the nature of the pact one made when mutual lives were saved multiple times.

"Can you at least tell me _why?" _Franklin asked, a hint of impatience in his tone. She had always been able to explain her reasoning before, pointing to his maps—which were offensively inaccurate according to her—and showing him which waters were safe and which were the territories of creatures he'd rather not think about. She could also navigate the things that were not on maps, such as storms, doldrums, and foreign ships. _The Mariner's Lament _had avoided Spanish and French naval vessels on more than one occasion, thanks to her warnings.

But apparently, this time was different.

"I… can't." Her words were spoken with uncertainty and that unnerved Franklin more than the miasma off their bow.

"Do you not trust that I will heed your warnings with all haste?" he asked her earnestly.

"It is not about trust." She turned her gaze back to him and opened her mouth as if to add more, but then her eyes lost focus and she looked as if she was in another world entirely.

"Ona?" He spoke her name but her attention was leagues away, her eyes slipping past him to stare out into the fog. She appeared lost, or worse, as if the night was calling to her, beckoning to come near.

"Something is here." Her voice was calm and even, trance-like if Franklin was being honest.

"What?" he asked, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up as he turned to look out over the dark waters. "What's here?"

Ona raised her arm and extended her finger, straight and true, and said, _"There."_

Her eyes were sharper than his, so Franklin pulled out his spyglass and held it up to his eye. Sure enough, there was something in the water. But it was not a ship at all. It was small and pale and it bobbed in the water with the buoyancy of a…

_"__Man overboard!"_ Franklin bellowed. He shoved his spyglass into his jacket and ran to the bell, ringing it as if the Devil's knights were at their heels, and he shouted once more, _"Man overboard!"_

But no one appeared in the doorways and on the gangplanks, vying for the ropes of the longboats to set them free. He was alone, with only Ona and the wind as his company.

The _wind?_ Where had that come from?

He had little time to wonder about the sudden change in weather, because the sound of a loud splash drew his attention back to the gunwale and the conspicuously empty deck. Franklin's heart leapt into his throat and he ran to the side, the rail cutting into his gut as he leaned over and searched the black waters. Sure enough, he saw Ona's head cutting through the surface, which was now choppy and white-capped due to the sudden appearance of the wind.

_"__Ona!"_ he screamed at the top of his lungs, but she paid him no mind, swimming straight for the man in the water. _"Man overboard!"_ he yelled again, this time adding, _"Any man who ignores the call will be hanged by the mainyard! An improvement for many of your mothers, seeing as your last coin will be going to her, making you more useful in death than you ever were in life!"_

If there was one way to get Jack Tars moving, it was to threaten their share of the profits. His men poured out onto the deck and did their jobs, untying the lines and lowering the longboat into the water. Two men crewed the boat, one to oar and the other to haul in the swimmers, and it reminded Franklin too much of the infamous day when _he'd _been in the longboat, striking out to rescue the stranded.

He would punish his men later, but for now his mind was consumed with searching the waters for sight of Ona. He was so distressed that he had forgotten the spyglass in his pocket, not that it would have mattered. It was so dark and the waves were beginning to block his view of the longboat.

_She'll survive this,_ he told himself as his hands gripped the wooden railing so hard his joints ached. _Ona's never met waters she couldn't cut through like a swordfish._ That was true enough, but it was more than the whitecaps that concerned him. Despite the sudden wind, the fog was rolling in thick as ever and he was suddenly afraid he would lose them to it.

_"__Light the lanterns!"_ he bellowed. _"Every one of them! Make her shine like a beacon!"_

The men were quick to obey this time, either because they knew they were on his black list, or because the thought of additional lamplight was comforting. Most likely, it was both.

"Captain Sharp!" the Master-at-arms, Burke, shouted to him. "They're headin' back!"

_Thank all the gods of the sea,_ he breathed in relief as he caught sight of the longboat. He could easily see Ona's bowed head, her yellow hair catching the glow of the lanterns. Franklin counted Yardley and Jiang had made it back as well, but he couldn't identify the man they had brought with him. He was clothed in dark colors and he was slumped over on the floor of the boat, his face obscured from Franklin's view.

_"__Bring 'em up!"_ Burke shouted, and crewman manned the ropes to bring the longboat alongside the deck. Once the lines were locked into place, the crew helped bring them aboard, including Ona and the stranger she had found.

Ona was drenched from head to foot, her dress clinging to her like a heavy tarp. Franklin knew it must have weighed heavily in the water, but by the severity of her determined expression, she could have been weighed by ball-and-chain and it wouldn't have stopped her from saving the drowning man.

_Drowned man,_ Franklin corrected himself as Yardley and Jiang dumped the body onto the deck. They turned him over onto his back and Franklin noticed two things immediately.

One, the man had been dead for hours if the whiteness of his skin was anything to go by. And two, he had been a high-ranking officer of the East India Trading Company—admiral, going by the gold trim of his coat and the gaudy shoulder epaulets.

Franklin felt the blood drain from his face as he glimpsed a crimson hole in the waistcoat situated just below the dead man's heart. He didn't know what kind of weapon could make a perfectly round spear like that, but it was clearly the cause of the admiral's death.

Something tugged at Franklin's memory. Hadn't the EITC just commissioned a new admiral? A former commodore, reinstated by Lord Beckett himself?

_Salazar's Beard, _he thought grimly._ What have you dragged onto my ship, Ona?_

As if his silent question moved her to action, she knelt by the man's side and moved her hands along his chest as if in search of something. Then without warning, she grabbed the neckline of his inner gold waistcoat and ripped it open, then placed her ear against his chest.

Franklin felt heavy pity when he realized what she was trying to do.

"He's gone, Ona," he said with grim gentleness. The crewmen had come to the same conclusion, as many of them had taken off their hats or tugged at their forelocks as a sign of respect. The sun was just beginning to breach the horizon behind them, and Franklin breathed with relief as he saw the mist begin to burn away. The admiral's death was a tragedy, to be sure, but they would certainly live another day.

"You did all you could," he added in a gentle tone. Ona completely ignored him, her full attention fixed on the lifeless corpse on the deck of his ship. Franklin grew flummoxed, less from her stubbornness and more because he felt like he didn't have a full grasp of the situation, something he was not accustomed to.

"Ona—"

Franklin's call to reason was trapped in his throat at the sight of what happened next.

Ona grabbed the dead man's jaw, tipped his head back, and pulled down his chin to force his mouth open. He knew what she was doing, and the pity in his chest swelled. She was going to try and resuscitate him. He'd seen many drowned men brought back this way, but more often than not, they stayed dead. Claimed by the sea.

Franklin reached forward, about to put a hand on Ona's shoulder and stop this foolishness, but she leaned down and covered the man's parted blue lips with her mouth.

His fingers never touched her shoulder. Franklin was thrown back as the ship gave a violent shudder, and for a moment he thought they had been broadsided by another ship. But then he looked up and saw a sight he had only seen once in his long, well-lived life.

A shaft of green light burst upwards and across the face of the sunrise, turning the sky the same shade of emerald. The green light reflected on the water and the hull of the ship, bathing them all in the ghoulish color.

Just as quickly, it was gone. And wet, gurgling coughing interrupted the dead silence.

Franklin looked down to see the naval officer sputter and vomit water onto the deck, quite a lot of it too. When the seawater was expelled from his innards, the man rolled back onto his back, gasping and filling his lungs with air as if he had never breathed before. His eyes were wild and full of fear, roving over them as he seemed unable to focus.

The crew, who had formed a tight circle around the scene, now backed away with fright on their faces and quiet prayers on their lips. Franklin had witnessed that particular look of dread fear before, and it concerned him more than the once-dead admiral at his feet. He knew what superstitious sailors, trapped on a ship and drowning in their fear, were capable of.

The drowned man seemed at least as frightened of them as they were of him, but then, his gaze stopped moving. He stared up at Franklin's navigator, who hadn't moved from her kneeling position. The man's brows creased with confusion, as if he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. Not an unreasonable reaction, given that Franklin's merchant vessel was one of the few who had a woman as part of the crew.

Or maybe it was something else. _The green flash…._

The admiral's gaze became unfocused again and his eyelids slid shut, his head drooping to the side as he lost consciousness. No one moved or even seemed to breathe.

"Well, what are you waiting for!" Franklin shouted, startling the men out of their terror. "Get this man below decks! He needs tending to!"

The crew remained as still as wooden statues.

"He… he weren't alive," Yardley whispered in a timid voice, wringing a red handkerchief in his gnarled hands. "He didn' have no heartbeat. I know, I listen'd to his chest first thing in the boat."

_"__A green flash at sunrise,"_ another man moaned. Franklin couldn't see who it was, but he recognized the cook's voice. "You know what that means. This be the Devil's work."

"He's a Company lapdog," spoke another dissenting voice. "Throw 'im overboard before he brings both Company an' Crown down on our heads!"

"He's a devil come from the black depths of Hell and he'll cut our throats in our sleep!" cried another.

"If you don't shut yer miserable traps,_ I'll_ cut your throats in your sleep!" Franklin snapped.

The crew fell silent, a veritable ghost ship apart from the small, breathy the admiral was making. Franklin spared a glance towards him. To say he looked unwell was an understatement.

Ona stayed silent on her knees, though her expression made a stone drop in his stomach. She was waiting for the crew to make the first move, her features still with potential deadliness. Like a sword in the dark.

"Since yer all so terrified of a half-drowned soul," Franklin spoke with wryness, "instead of showing him our saintly hospitality and giving him a comfortable berth, I'll just go ahead and throw him in the brig. The rats need company, anyhow."

The captain's barbed words drew looks of shame and guilt, and rightly so, but he wasn't relocating the man to the brig for their sake. A crew that believed there was one amongst them who was not of the natural, God-sanctioned order was a crew that was a stone's throw away from mutiny. Franklin couldn't trust them, and he was going to shut the admiral away behind bars for his own safety.

After the naval officer was dragged down to the brig, with Franklin following to make sure they locked the door properly, he held out his hand for the key and the men handed it over without a word. In fact, they looked relieved, and it made him feel a wave of disgust. He hadn't realized he'd hired so many yellow-bellied cowards, and he'd need to fix that the next time they made port.

Ona had followed them down to the brig, which did not surprise Franklin at all, and it gave him the opportunity he needed for some answers. He pulled her away from the stairs, listened intently for a moment to make sure they were truly alone—apart from the admiral who was still unconsciousness—and then he hissed at her:

_"__What in the Seven Hells have you done, Ona?"_

Her expression was mildly troubled as she answered, "Nothing."

"Nothing." Franklin sighed as he felt that old pain return behind his right eye. "You did… nothing."

"That is what I said," she answered with brows slightly raised. Franklin cast a furtive glance at the man on the cell floor before turning back to his navigator, trying to exude patience and understanding even as he wanted to give her a little bit of a shake. In some regards, her sharp mind could run circles around his, but in others she was still very much like a child. Not innocent, no, definitely not. But she had a simple way of viewing the world, and at times, it could be very dark.

"We all saw the green flash," he interjected, deciding to cut right to the heart of the matter. "I've seen it once before and I know what it means." He leaned in closer so he could whisper, "Did you bring his soul back from the land of the dead?"

"No," she responded firmly. Then, in less certain tone, "I mean, I don't believe I did. You know I can't. Not anymore."

Franklin sighed and backed off. He trusted her, and if she said she didn't do it, then by God he would believe her. But that might not matter to the rest of the men.

"Regardless of _how_ it happened, do you realize how it looked? What this could lead to? How the crew will interpret the signs? You know how men react to situations they can't comprehend."

Ona's gaze shifted from him, and he knew she was looking at the man in question. Her eyes grew unfocused with the weight of the memories she was no doubt recalling.

"I remember."

Yes, he was sure she did. It was not likely something either of them would ever forget.

"You needn't worry, though," she added, her gaze still distant.

"Oh, I feel the need very acutely."

She turned her eyes on him, her expression softening for a moment, as if she felt pity for him. Then the oddly gentle look was gone, replaced by a hardened one, and she said, "His soul has returned but it no longer belongs to him. Nor does his body truly live. He feels… disconnected from this realm. As if his soul belongs to another."

It was declarations like that that would send most sane men overboard in a bid to escape the strangeness that was Ona. But Franklin merely grunted and asked, "And who has laid claim to this man's poor soul?"

"I can't say." She hesitated, as if mulling over her words very carefully. "But I _can_ say I believe the owner will be coming to collect."

It was a good minute before Franklin responded, voicing the question that had been itching the back of his mind ever since the green light had flared in the sky.

"Ona… How do you know these things? Are your powers returning?"

Again, that look of uncertainty. She looked down at her hands as if the answers could be found in the creases of her palms. It was so unlike her to be without all the answers, or at least that's what it felt like to him. He realized in that moment he had been relying on her for too much. Taken her for granted too many times.

"I don't know. But Franklin." She put her hands on his arms, looking up at him with a dire warning in her eyes. "Something is happening. The tides are changing, and I fear not for the better."

She wasn't wrong about that. The East India Trading Company had unleashed a scourge and every mother's son on the waters was suffering for it. Dozens of ships, vanished, eaten up by a beast so terrible and led by a man so feared they dare not speak his name.

At the thought of the Company and the Crown, Franklin looked back to their prisoner.

"The men make a good case for wanting to throw him overboard. Do you understand what that uniform represents? He's not just with the British Royal Navy, and he's not just an admiral. He will bring the Company on our heads so fast we're bound to lose them even faster."

Franklin turned to Ona and took her hands in his.

"Even if he survives, we could all face the gallows."

Franklin had tried to run a clean ship, but with the EITC running the seas, even honest men had to sometimes carry cargo that was not technically legal. The contraband currently in the _Mariner's_ hold was enough to ground them permanently, and may even cost them their lives. After all, the Crown saw smuggling as little more than piracy, even though Franklin's cargo was harmless tea and tobacco.

But that wasn't all Franklin was afraid of. If Lord Beckett had truly conquered the monsters of the sea, then he was not the sort of man to flee in terror before someone like Ona. No, he would find a way to control and use her, to what ends Franklin could scarcely imagine. But as long as Franklin drew breath, he would never let that happen.

Murdering an admiral was a small price to pay if it would keep Ona safe.

"What are you going to do with him?"

Ona's voice drew him out of his reverie, and he discovered she was looking at him quite closely, as if she could discern the nature of his thoughts. Sometimes, he suspected she could.

"I haven't decided yet," he said evasively. "But keep a weather eye out for any ships that smell like trouble to you. Whether it be the Company or the Crown or something else entirely that comes for him, I want to be prepared. And if no one comes, well…"

"You will allow him to present his own case?" she asked, her tone purposefully even. But her apparent indifference didn't fool Franklin.

"This is not the same as when I found you, Ona," he said in a gentle way. Her eyes narrowed in disbelief at his words.

"It is same enough."

She brushed past him before he could answer, and he listened to her receding footsteps with a heavy heart. He knew why Ona would feel protective of the man, but it was not the same by halves.

Franklin approached the cell and stared down at the drenched and unconscious admiral, survival and concern over Ona overriding his natural curiosity of the man and how he came to be in this strange circumstance.

He leaned forward and lowered his voice to a whisper that only the shadows could hear.

"You had better pray to the Holy Spirit that your presence doesn't endanger her. Because if it does…"

Franklin hissed between the bars.

_"…__I'll drown you myself."_


	4. A Captive's Lot

**Then**

No one could get within ten feet of the cell door without the woman screaming like a banshee.

She had woken up several hours after they'd found her; Franklin knew this because he'd been keeping a close eye on her. She had tolerated his presence more than the others, to which Franklin couldn't explain or understand, and the shrieking had only begun when another member of the crew had entered the brig. She'd stared at the man as if he had come to murder her and raged at him with the force of a hurricane.

She didn't speak, no matter how much Franklin tried to converse with her. He talked about inane things, like the life he had left behind in Westminster, becoming a shipmate on a privateer vessel to send back coin to his mother and sisters. He talked about the places he'd been and the strange sights he had seen, already a numerable amount even at his young age.

The woman never looked at him, instead settling into a corner of the cell with her legs pressed tight to her chest. She was still wearing the cloth tarp, the ropes lashed around her middle so it reminded Franklin of a toga. She looked like she could be a lost Roman, displaced across time and space—the last survivor of a dead empire.

He had offered her clothing, perhaps not fit for a woman given that it was breeches, a linen shirt and a waistcoat, but Franklin didn't think she would care. To be honest, he didn't really either. Perhaps it was being raised around women, but he knew they were every bit as capable of men, and oftentimes more so.

But she had ignored his offer, much the same as she'd ignored everything else. When she hadn't eaten or had anything to drink since she'd been brought onboard, Franklin began to fear she would succumb to thirst. Not to mention, if she was what he thought she was, then she should be suffering from a lack of access to seawater.

But she had not dried out, like a fish left to bake on the sand, but the dark circles under her eyes did indicate she was suffering in some way.

"You've got to at least drink some water," he said, nodding his head at the small bucket in her cell. He had managed to open the cell door and set it inside quickly, not wanting to distress her, but she hadn't made a sound and had only stared at him with those strange eyes of stormy blue.

"Or maybe you'd prefer tea? I have a secret stash I wouldn't mind sharing with you," he said, rather cheerfully. "Just… let me know. Give me a sign. Throw something at my head if you feel so inclined."

He had fully expected her to remain sullen and silent. Instead, she opened her mouth and spoke for the first time.

"If you continue along this heading, you will surely die."

Franklin's mouth hung open as he stared at her. Her accent was thick and vaguely familiar. Northern. Icelandic perhaps, but definitely Scandinavian in dialect. He wasn't sure what he expected a mermaid's voice to sound like, or that they could even talk at all, but her timbre was smooth and low. Quite pleasant to the ears, actually, and it took him a moment to process the dire warning of her words.

"What's that?" he asked, his voice cracking in an undignified way.

"These waters belong to the kelpies," she said, appraising him in a way that made him think she believed he might be a bit slow. "They will summon a storm and wreck your ship and drag your men to the bottom of the sea."

Franklin had no idea what to say to that. Her words were outlandish but there was something in her eyes… A steady certainty that made his mouth go dry and his throat click painfully when he swallowed. Whatever the truth was, she certainly believed they were headed into dangerous waters.

He got to his feet, brushed off the bottoms of his breeches, and said, "I'll inform the captain, then, shall I?"

The woman looked away, staring at the cell bars as if Franklin was no longer there. He scratched at a spot on his chin and turned to ascend the staircase, already forming in his mind what he would say to the captain. Because he would say something, that was certain. She may have had no proof to her claims, but there was that tiny… minute… important ingredient that Franklin could not ignore.

And far be it from Franklin to argue with mermaids.

* * *

**Now**

The first thing that crossed his awareness was a dull, thudding pulse behind his eyes.

_I'm hungover as sin,_ was James' initial thought.

_I've been thrown in jail,_ was his second as the latticework of metal bars began to focus through his blurry vision. He blinked furiously, then rubbed his eyes and looked around to see, in fact, he was lying on the flooring of a ship's brig.

His first order of business was to work on sitting up, and once he had done that, he could focus on the _where_ and the _why_: the _where_ being whose ship he had landed on, and the _why _being, well… _why_ he had chosen to become inebriated enough to end up in such a sorry state.

The getting-into-an-upright-position portion of the plan wasn't as difficult as he'd imagined it would be, considering his pounding head. But even that was receding, and James managed to pull himself up, his back against the hard cell bars. It was clear he wasn't on the_ Dutchman_, considering the lack of barnacles and sea moss and black rot covering the bulkheads and floor.

But something was gnawing at the back of his mind. James had sworn off spirits since he'd regained his commission. The sensation of a hangover was certainly familiar, but the absence of alcohol on his breath or lingering bitter on his tongue was strange.

James looked down to take stock of himself and found his uniform most intact, if a bit damp. His powdered wig and tricorne had been lost at some point, as had his sword and flintlock pistol. He sniffed at the cuff of his jacket and smelled the brine of the sea.

_So, I went overboard. But why? Think, man!_

He blinked his eyes, expecting even the gentle candlelight of the nearby lamp to pierce straight through to his skull, as it always did after a bad bender, but the pain was… surprisingly absent.

_Think. What's the last thing you remember?_

He racked his brain for what he could recall, and what he found was unsettling.

James had been aboard the _Dutchman_, in his cabin, sitting at the rotted wood desk and lamenting the fact that Elizabeth had thrown in with a bunch of pirates. Specifically Sao Feng's crew, as she was apparently their captain now.

Or… had been. Was she still in the brig? Why wasn't he on the _Dutchman_ now?

As soon as he had formed the question in his mind, a flash of insight pierced his thoughts like a spear through a fish:

_Sneaking the keys from the jailer. Opening the cell door and coaxing Elizabeth and her men through. Convincing her of his good intentions but knowing he could never make up for Governor Swann's death._

_Governor Swann… Elizabeth…_ A kiss. There had been a kiss, hadn't there? And then the boom of his pistol. Pain… cold… and then nothing.

James remembered how the nothingness hadn't lasted. There had been other things lurking at the boundaries of his senses, calling to him, trying to get him to open his eyes. He had thought it had been a bad dream as he floated through the sea, surrounded by grotesque and unnerving images he didn't want to look at or think about.

Cold and alone… drifting… _drifting…_

He must have been knocked over the head and pushed overboard by that unholy crewman with the starfish on his face. It was the only explanation he could come up with for having been found adrift at sea, and awakening to find his head splitting in two. Only… it didn't hurt anymore. He should probably thank his stars for that and be glad he didn't drown.

James reached up and wiped his forehead, looking at his damp fingers as if mesmerized by the sweat on them. Had the escape been real or had he dreamed it all? Even the kiss felt half-imagined.

_Perhaps because Elizabeth had allowed it,_ he thought bitterly. He pushed the unkind thought aside, focusing on the more important matter. If the whole event had been true, then that meant Elizabeth could still be in danger. The _Dutchmen_ did not let her quarry go so easily.

Within seconds, James was on his feet and banging at the cell bars.

_"__Hello!"_ he bellowed at the top of his lungs. "Is anyone there?!"

He banged on his bars for good effect. He didn't know who was holding him captive, and he wasn't sure which would give him a more grisly fate—to be taken by pirates or the Spaniards. The Company had hunted them each down with equal fervor, the_ Dutchman_ caring not for the nature of her prey so long as she was well-fed.

Whoever they were, they hadn't killed him yet, so they either planned to torture him for information or they desired to use him as a bargaining chip. Unfortunately, James didn't have the time or patience to play wargames today. He wanted, _needed_ to discover Elizabeth's fate.

When no one was roused by his shouts, he gave up and began to pace the length of his small cage. But he was up on his feet again, quick as lightning, when he heard footsteps on the stairs. He pushed his face against the cell bars as he tried to get a glimpse of this newcomer. It was a man, short in stature and fairly filthy. Enough dirt was smudged on the sailor's face to tell him the ship had been out to sea for a long time.

"Where am I?" James demanded of the sailor as he drew near. A wooden tray was in his hands, morsels of salted pork and hardtack laid across it. The food should have made James salivate at the sight of it, as his stomach felt empty and hollow, but his hunger was conspicuously absent.

The man stopped in his tracks and gave James such a look as to confound him. It was wary and even a bit fearful, as if he was staring at a caged beast rather than an imprisoned man.

"Answer me, sailor," James demanded with the same authoritative voice he'd used on hundreds of marines under his command. But the man continued with his furtive stare, and James' sense of unease returned. He'd suffered all manner of foulness from brigands before. Cursing, spitting, threats of what would be done to his mother and dog. But never had they stared at him with raw, unmistakable fear.

"Can you tell me… where I am?" he asked in a gentler tone this time. The crewman took a step forward, cautious as if treading across quicksand, and he stopped again just a few feet beyond the bars.

"Yer aboard the_ Mariner's Lament_," he finally answered. His accent was decidedly English, even if it was of poor breeding. At least he had not been taken aboard a Spanish vessel.

But by God, what an unfortunate name for a ship.

"And how did I come to be aboard the_ Mariner's Lament_?" James inquired in that same soft tone. The sailor took another step forward, his brown eyes wide with foreboding. From this distance, James could now see his hands were trembling.

"By the hand of the Devil," the sailor whispered, his voice plagued with dread.

James had run out of patience, especially where superstitious pirates were concerned. Quick as a snake, his arm shot through the space between the bars and grabbed onto the man's jacket. The sailor gave a shriek and dropped the tray of food, pork and bread splattering across the tarred floor.

"I will speak to your captain," James growled through gritted teeth. If they were terrified in regards to his person, then he would put it to his uses_. "Now!"_

The man fell back a step at the force of James' anger and the hand that shoved him away. He didn't need to be told twice; the crewman turned and sprinted up the stairs, taking them two at a time as if the hounds of Hell were on his heels.

James sighed and looked down at the ruined meal just out of his reach, more out of habit than any actual hunger. He returned to his spot across from the door at the back of the cage, wincing at the damp wood beneath him. He'd forgotten what it was like to be in a brig, how nothing dried out and the musty smell of rotten wood was never far away. Though he had to admit, he'd been on pirate vessels that had smelled worse. The captain of this ship took great care with its upkeep, and that might be a hopeful sign for James. A man that ran a tight ship knew how to properly discipline crew and exchange prisoners.

But then again… the crewman who had come to feed him hadn't looked properly disciplined. He had looked haunted. It was a look James had seen before, usually before some sort of madness set in. _The hand of the Devil, indeed._ Those were not the words of a man whose mind was on steady ground.

There was nothing to do but wait, and wait he did, imagining his last moments with Elizabeth over and over. She had called out to him, her voice tight with fear. But before that, the kiss. James had known the ruse was over when Jones' crewmen had spotted them. He'd wanted to leave Elizabeth something of himself, because he knew she would leave and he couldn't follow.

Her eyes had been bright, with tears… for him? That had been real… hadn't it?

James' head slowly dropped until his chin was resting on his chest, and he drifted into the sweet relief of slumber with Elizabeth's face behind his eyelids and her name on his lips.


	5. A Devilfish's Bargain

**Then**

"You did not heed my warning."

It seemed the mermaid no longer needed prompting to speak—she addressed Franklin as soon as he set foot inside the brig. He would have chuckled, smiled, showed some sign of mirth at the change, but all he felt was exhausted beyond his years. Half the crew, gone in a night, and the remaining men were left to put the bodies to rest and repair what was left of the ship.

"I did," Franklin said, leaning against the cage across from hers. He looked down at his hands as he added, "The captain did not."

A sound like a scoff came from the cage, and her voice was full of disgust as she said, "Men who put their pride above others deserve to have their life cut from their bodies. I hope he's not still amongst the living."

Franklin stared at her for a long moment, at first in shock of her bold words, and then in curiosity. He couldn't deny she was intriguing and captivating, much the same way a thunderstorm was.

_Would she cut my life from my body if I released her, I wonder?_ He wasn't foolish enough to find out. He'd heard the tales of mermaids, anyone who had been on the sea for longer than a sunset would have. The tales were much the same: a beauty would lure a man with her sensuous eyes and pretty face, seduce him and fulfill his every pleasure, and then pull him to the bottom of the sea to eat his still-living body.

This one seemed to have no interest in anything but the murderous portion of the tales.

"The captain is still alive and wishes he had listened to my words," Franklin answered. "I… presented the warning as mine. He would not trust a plea from someone currently occupying his brig."

And not to mention when that someone was a nymph of the sea. Captain Ulysses was having a rough go of it just accepting there was a woman onboard, let alone if Franklin told him that the woman was not a woman, per se. Just a creature that held the shape of one.

She hadn't responded, so he added, "Regardless, I thank you for the warning. I am grateful you tried to save the men aboard this ship."

"There is no saving men like you," she answered as her bright eyes traced the confines of her cage.

"Men like me?" he asked as the corner of his mouth quirked into a smile. There weren't many men like him that he knew of, but he was curious what she had to say on the matter.

"Men of the sea," she said with unmistakable bitterness as her gaze focused back on him. He fought off a shiver. "Cursed, you are. Cursed by your avarice and murderous intent."

Franklin tilted his head and asked, "You seem awfully sure of that."

"With reason," she said in a low tone that spoke of steadfast confidence. After a long moment, Franklin swung his arms behind his back and approached her cage but stopped far enough that he could not be reached through the bars.

"What's your name?"

His question caused her lips to tighten into a scowl.

"My name cannot be spoken by the tongues of men."

"See," he said with a shake of his head, "you can't be saying things like that. Not around here. If the crew or captain overheard you, they'd tie a cannonball to your ankles and throw you overboard. Probably cut your throat for good measure."

The woman moved to the bars so quickly that Franklin almost took a step back. But he forced himself to remain still and at ease, even with her face only a foot from his.

"Then let the sea reclaim me. There are worse fates."

The surprising quietness in her voice was not baleful or malevolent. It spoke instead of something deeper and more painful. For the first time, and perhaps he should feel ashamed for this, he truly considered what she must have endured to arrive at this point. And he found, oddly enough, that he wanted to help her. It was why he had brought her onboard to begin with, wasn't it?

_Well, for trust to be earned, it must first be given,_ Franklin thought.

"My name is Franklin Sharp," he said in a confident manner. "I'm second mate to the captain, and you're onboard a galleon named the _Intrepid. _We found you marooned after a strange storm. Half the crew think you're a sign of ill-fate, and the other half believe you're a witch."

The woman stared at him, coolly and unblinking.

"And which half do you subscribe to?"

Franklin almost smiled. Instead, he answered, "Neither."

Her expression was plainly unimpressed. Franklin would have to make his case if he hoped to ever gain the trust of the sea nymph.

"To be honest, and don't tell anyone I said this, but… I believe most of the men on board are lacking any kind of good sense, which is probably why I'm seeking your company rather than theirs. But if we're going to keep having these lovely conversations, which I hope we do, I'd like to call you by something. Think of a name and I'll address you by it."

When he still received no answer or indication that she even cared he was speaking to her, he made a decision. It was bold, to be sure, and perhaps rash. But there was no point in hiding his cards, especially if he wanted to gain her confidence.

"I know what you are."

She finally blinked. It was the only reaction he got. Her expression remained neutral and slightly frosted, and he didn't stop to wonder if his candidness was a mistake, because he pressed on.

"I don't know what happened to you, but I know if you're going to survive what comes next you're going to need allies."

Her eyes narrowed and she said, "You know nothing of what you speak."

Perhaps the boldness of his youth was to blame, but Franklin leaned forward and whispered, "It would be fairly obvious what you are, even without those gills behind your ears."

For the first time, fear shone in her eyes—bright and almost animal-like in their clarity. He felt guilt run through him at her reaction. He hadn't meant to frighten her, only to impress on her the seriousness of the situation.

"No one else saw the evidence," he clarified, hoping to dispel that awful look of fear on her face. "No one else knows but me. And I will keep your secret safe."

Fear instantly turned to mistrust, her brows drawn together as she watched him for signs of duplicity.

"Why would you do such a thing?" She paused, and added with a hint of dread, "What do you want in return?"

"Nothing," he responded.

Her expression darkened.

"All men desire something," was her answer to his declaration. She did have a point there, and Franklin _did_ have a goal in mind. He had been thinking about it all morning as he had rested after the disastrous storm she had warned them about. The one apparently summoned by kelpies.

"My one and only dream has been to captain a ship of my own," he began. "It's my calling. A feeling I have down to my bones. And when that day comes, I want to surround myself with those I can trust. Anyone can learn how to jib a topsail, but not everyone has the courage and resolve to do the right thing."

"And what is 'the right thing'?" she asked, her eyes hard and immutable.

"At the moment, it's figuring out how to keep you alive."

He paused, gathering his words so they would come out right. When he believed he had them sorted accordingly, he spoke as clearly and concisely as he could.

"The world is changing. The mysteries of the sea are shrinking as our understanding of the world is expanding. I would like to imagine that out there, somewhere, are things beyond man's ability to control. To exploit and profit from.

"I want there to be wonder still left in the world by the time I leave it."

Franklin gave a soft smile, allowing some of the innocence of his youth to shine through. He never spoke of such things to anyone, knowing his idealism would be mercilessly mocked and dismissed. But he thought if anyone could understand, it would be her. Someone not human, and therefore, not limited by their ignorance of the world.

"You are one of those wondrous, unknowable things. I find your presence to be nothing short of a miracle, but… others will not see it that way." His voice hardened as he said, "And if I the captain discovered what you are, he would either want to control you or destroy you."

The wariness on her face was vanishing, replaced by something else, though he couldn't tell what.

"I'm not asking you to trust me. Not right away. I haven't earned it," he clarified so she wouldn't misunderstand.

Her eyes remained narrowed.

"You would have me believe your intentions are lofty and virtuous, but you are still a man."

"I do like to say so when the crew teases otherwise. But truth be told… I think I'm more boy than man still." And he hated it, the way he was so fresh-faced despite his hard-earned skills as a sailor. But as the woman studied his face carefully, he thought his boyish qualities might do him a favor for once.

"Your prejudice against those of my sex are not unfounded," he said, looking down at the scuffed toes of his boots. "I agree; we're a cursed lot. From what I've witnessed, we sully or commodify everything we touch. Therefore, if you choose to withhold your trust, I will understand. And your secret will remain safely locked away regardless of your decision." He looked back up in time to catch the confusion on her creased brow.

"My decision?"

His mouth split into a smile.

"On whether or not you and I join together as partners. Now wait, hear me out," he interjected quickly at the offended look on her face. "The captain wants to dump you at the nearest port, which will be Nassau. I jump ship with you there, and we scrounge together a crew. I mean, we might need to dress you up like a man because sailors tend to be stupid, dull-eyed dogs when a member of the female sex is about, but…"

Franklin smiled again, imagining the possibilities.

"Between the two of us, we could go anywhere and do anything we wanted. And there'd be no one to stop us or tell us what to do. We'd be our own masters."

Her expression was that of a stone cliff—unmoving but perilous to those who dared too close. She intoned in a low voice, "What makes you believe I need you?"

Franklin didn't back away—he knew a bluff when he saw it.

"What will you do once we reach Nassau?"

She said nothing.

"From which province do you hail? Do you have living family? A place to call home?"

Again, silence.

"You didn't end up on that rock in the middle of the sea due to happy fortune. Something terrible took place, didn't it? I can see it in your eyes. You lost something dear."

The resounding bang as she hit the bars with the flat of her palms made him jump, but somehow he kept his wits and didn't back down. Instead, she was the one to move away, further back into the cell, though in actuality she didn't have far to go. It wasn't the largest of cages.

"All right," Franklin spoke after a moment, holding his hands up to show he meant no harm. "I apologize for causing you distress. It wasn't my intentions. I'll leave you be."

He had almost made it to the steps when she said, "You are a bold child."

Franklin stopped and turned, a brow raised at the woman as she returned the look with surprising calmness.

"Ona," she finally spoke, the word stated like a declaration. "You may call me Ona."

The sudden levity of his heart caused Franklin's face to burst into a wide smile, and he didn't think he imagined some of the shadows recede from her eyes.

* * *

_**And now we've learned our mermaid's name! I hope these Franklin and Ona chapters aren't too tedious, because I've really fallen in love with their relationship and I hope you do too.**_

_**Next chapter, we visit James in the present and the story will really start to pick up speed.**_


	6. Errand of Fools

**Now**

There was a scream in his mouth as he bolted upright, gasping for breath as his heart raced in his chest. It took James several seconds to remember where he was.

The nightmare was less a dream and more a remembrance of terrible things, unfolding horrific memories within his mind like the petals of a venomous flower, spilling poison across his thoughts.

He remembered the kiss, but even that precious memory was tarnished by what came next. After Elizabeth had scrambled onto the rope, James had been confronted by the crewman with the starfish on his face. James had ordered him to return to his station, but the barnacled man had ignored the command and begun to repeat a haunted mantra.

_Part of the crew, part of the ship… Part of the crew, part of the ship…_

James had suspected the end was nigh. Jones would be appearing any moment and they would be caught, so he had separated the tow ropes from the _Empress_ and the _Dutchmen_. He had turned back to the starfish-man, hoping to continue his ploy of distraction, but then he had had no air to breathe. He had seen the wooden pike sticking out of his chest, but all he could register was surprise.

_James Norrington. Do you fear death?_

James shuddered hard at the ghost whisper in his ear. It couldn't have been real. He was here, alive and well, his memories a product of concussion or sea madness. Surely he had not answered Jones by stabbing him with his sword. Surely the last thing he had not seen was the look of cruel amusement in the cursed man's eyes.

_Then take a look for yourself, if it's all just a horrid dream._

He didn't want to. His heart raced and his palms were damp and he did not. Want. To look.

But curiosity, or perhaps the masochistic, self-destruction he had picked up along the way, won out in the end.

James reached down with cold, shaky fingers, and found he didn't need to unbutton his coat. The buttons had already been ripped off by someone else's hand, but only the top few inches. As if… they only needed to reach so far.

_No. Please, no._

The silent prayer of denial was unheeded. He pulled open his coat and the fatal puncture wound was there in all of its glory, settled directly below his heart. Bloodless and gaping like a maw into Hell itself.

Panic overtook him as his mind seemed to leave his body for a time. He watched from a distance as this frightened man, once Admiral James Norrington, banged on the bars of his cage and screamed. For help or death, it wasn't known, but he didn't stop yelling until his voice went hoarse and his knuckles were bloodied on the dank bars. He collapsed to the floor and put his head in his palms.

What had happened to him? And what would become of him now?

Only the rhythmic creaking of the ship answered his unspoken pleas. Despite all of his shouting, no one had come for him, not even the timid, frightened crewman from before. He was utterly forsaken.

It had been quite a while since James had vomited, but not so long that he didn't immediately recognize the impending signs. He leaned to the side just in time to avoid emptying the comments of his stomach into his lap. It was nothing but bile anyway, and it burned terribly, but what was worse was the hysterical laughter that bubbled up his throat afterward. He wondered if any of the bile had spilled out of the hole in his chest, like a barrel that had sprung a leak.

_Get ahold of yourself, man!_

James had seen all manner of strange things before. Men who became bones in the moonlight, still-beating hearts in chests. Davy Jones and his crew of monsters and horrors. And yet, seeing himself as a part of the fantastical tale, as an unnatural thing that defied explanation, was enough to drive any man mad.

Only one thought kept him firmly on the ground, one desire that could override his terror and focus his mind to the task: Discovering if Elizabeth was safe. It was not because he thought he still had a chance of winning her heart, if indeed he had had a chance to begin with. He was genuinely afraid for her, especially knowing of her father's death and that the _Dutchman_ would be hell-bent after them now.

And more alarming, when was _now_ precisely? How long had he been… indisposed?

He couldn't bring himself to say it. Even now his mind fought against the concept that he might not be entirely amongst the living.

James leaned his head back against the bars, shutting his eyes and yearning for rum to wash the noxious taste out of his mouth. His fingers itched for a bottle, and frankly, he couldn't think of a more appropriate occasion for drink.

He must have drifted off, because suddenly there was the sound of keys jingling outside his cell and he couldn't recall hearing footsteps. He nearly opened his eyes but thought better of it and forced himself still. He waited patiently as the key found its place in the lock and turned, accompanied by light boot steps and an odd but familiar sort of dragging sound.

It took him a moment to place it. A crewman had come to mop up his cage. He wanted to laugh. What poor sod had drawn the short straw, forced to brave the brig to shackle up the raving prisoner? But James didn't hear the sound of shackles, and by the single set of footfalls he had heard, the crewman was alone.

The creak of the cell door sounded as the door opened, and footsteps and mop came into the cell, followed by the door shutting and locking again. The sailor had locked himself inside with James.

_Foolish._

He sprang to his feet and accosted the sailor, grabbing him by the shoulders and slamming him into the bars. James pulled back his fist in preparation of knocking his captor unconscious, but he stilled his hand just in time.

It was not a crewman. It was not a man at all.

The woman did not flinch. She did not scream or cry or beg for mercy. She did not even wince from the pressure of James' thumb pressed against her collarbone. Instead, her cold blue eyes stared up at him, freezing him to the spot with the intensity of her gaze.

There was no fear there, none at all. Just an intense sort of… watchfulness that made him feel less a man and more an insect.

James released his hold of her shoulder and backed away a pace. He did not know how to react or proceed, unable to get past the thought of a woman being on the ship. In the brig. Alone.

_And to clean up your vile mess, _he thought with a mixture of self-shame and disgust. But then he saw the ring of keys in her hand and his earlier plans of escape rushed to the surface.

James snatched the ring out of her grip and proceeded to the cell door, thrusting the keys through the bar as he began to try each key in the lock.

He expected the woman to scream now that James no longer pinned her to the bars. But she never did. Instead, she spoke to him, her voice low and surprisingly calm. Her speech was self-made proper English, but there was a foreign influence underneath he could not place.

"Do not be a fool."

For the third time that day he felt the urge to laugh at something decidedly not humorous. Acting a fool was James Norrington's pastime, wasn't it? Fall for the woman who could never love him. Betray those who were the closest thing he had to friends, all for a meaningless title and an empty station. Not to mention, he had doubly-betrayed his commission for said woman, and had earned a pike through the ribcage for his efforts—

James fumbled and nearly dropped the keys, cursing under his breath as he forced his trembling fingers to comply with his wishes. He tried the next key, and the next, no luck with any of his choices, and _why wasn't the damned woman screaming for help?_

"You've nowhere to run," she said, once more with the strange calmness. He had to stifle the urge to roll his eyes at her unhelpful comment. But her next statement was actually interesting.

"The men fear you."

The key clicked into place.

"Good," he snapped, almost viciously. "Then they won't stand in my way."

He turned the locked, slammed the door open, and bolted across to the only exit of the brig. He twisted around corners and through narrow hallways, sneaking past the snoring, occupied hammocks. James knew the chance of escape was very slim, but still he slipped through the bowels of the ship with the stealth of a feline, and when he made it to the deck without alerting any of the crew, he grew hopeful.

The crisp air that caressed his face felt like the hand of salvation. The air below decks on any ship was never fresh, always full of rank dampness and cloying suffocation, and he had never appreciated the sea breeze more than in that moment. The night was dark and from his shadowy vantage point under the stairs that led to the fo'c'sle, he could take stock of his situation. He knew he didn't have long to act, as the woman would not doubt raise the alarm any minute, and his options were limited. He could either jump overboard and pray he found another ship before he drowned—unlikely—or he could steal a longboat and try to row to freedom.

Option B was decidedly the superior.

James was as quiet as a mouse, or at least, that was his goal, hoping the creak of rope and the scrape of wood against wood was muffled enough by the wind in the sails that it wouldn't rouse the lookout in the crow's nest. He was quite pleased with himself when he single-handedly managed to begin lowering the boat, though it was a difficult job with only one man.

Once he made it to the water, he could silently glide across the water and disappear into the black night, leaving only ripples in his wake.

He almost made it. James was so close he could see the glittering surface reflecting the dim lamplight from above when the line jerked hard through his hands, burning across his palm. He released the rope and looked up, a stone dropping in his stomach at the sight of dark silhouetted heads looking at him from above.

_Well,_ he thought morosely, _the fool's errand is over._

James was gripped by the back of his coat and bodily tossed onto the deck once the men hoisted the longboat high enough. He hit the deck hard, but didn't give his captors the pleasure of hearing his grunt of pain. Instead, he sprang to his feet, bringing up his fists to protect his face from what he knew was coming. The blow hit the side of his left forearm and he returned the blow, hitting a large, bald man in the jaw with a right hook.

A second man lunged, but James stepped aside and the sailor overshot him, earning a hit to the back of his head as he passed. James turned in a circle, getting a good look at the crewman who surrounded him—about ten in all, but that number was growing fast as the commotion of the brawl woke the remaining sailors.

Suddenly, he was reminded of that ridiculous scene in Tortuga when he had finally found Jack Sparrow. He gave a bitter laugh as he realized he may have regained his commission, but he'd never lost his love of the fight.

James raised his arms and shouted, "C'mon, men! There's only one of me and a whole flock of you! Or maybe I'll just take you all one by one in a proper fight."

The crew obliged, and James reflected on two things as the world began to sway.

One, the crew certainly didn't seem to fear him now, unless that fright was simply being channeled into aggression and fisticuffs.

And two, James had no rum to blame for his self-destructive behavior now. Maybe it was because he realized there was no hope left for him. He could not escape and find Elizabeth. At best, he would be handed over to the Company, and Lord Beckett would gift him with a rope necklace. At worse…

_…__part of the crew, part of the ship._

He spat out the tangy taste of seawater onto the deck from his prone position, but he saw the spot of liquid was dark. _Not seawater, then._ Before he could determine if he was injured in his mouth or somewhere more vital, he was grabbed by the back of his coat and dragged to his feet. James gave a sharp smile to the bald man who had hold of him again, and he knew the smile would be crimson and half-mad to behold.

"I thought you had taken a shine to me," James said, voice full of wry humor. The man scowled, revealed his blackened teeth and rotting gums, and pulled his fist back. James noted his knuckles were stained red.

The fist crashed forward and connected with his nose, though James heard the break more than felt it as stars exploded before his eyes. Warm liquid coursed down his face and he gasped and sputtered as copper flooded his mouth.

But then he noted something else. None of the men carried weapons. No cutlass or pistol or even a dagger among them. _Is mutiny a concern onboard this vessel?_ James wondered. Given the cowardice he had seen so far, he wouldn't exactly have blamed the captain for hiding the iron and steel.

"Go on," James rasped through the trickle of blood, eyeing the sailor who looked more bull than man. "Do it, then."

The crewman seemed just about to oblige when a head of yellow hair flashed across his vision.

_"__Stop!"_

The calm woman didn't sound so calm now as she thrust her hand forward into bull-man's face.

The sailor had plenty of time to stop his swing. He did not.

She dropped to the deck like a stone.

Something within James' chest, a hot, coiling beast, burst to life.

"Cowardly, brutish _beast!"_ he shouted and struggled against the large meaty hand that was still on his throat. "You call yourself a man! If you were sailing on my ship, I would flay your skin from your miserable hide and throw you overboard to wash myself of you like the tar stain you are!"

Bull-man, whose face was now red with a vein pulsing in his forehead, pulled back his fist and was about to let it fly when a commanding voice bellowed:

_"__ENOUGH!"_

James was immediately released, and not expecting this sudden turn of events, he collapsed to the deck as his trembling legs failed to catch him in time. His arse hit the planks and his back hit the mainmast, and he sucked in a breath—not from his own discomfort but from what lay before him. It was the yellow-haired woman, lying in a lump and solidly unconscious.

The angry creature twisted in his chest again, but there was no time to free it from its cage. The crew parted like the Red Sea before Moses, and a short, well-built man in his 50's—the captain by his bearing and gait—stalked forward, his sun-beaten face twisted into an angry scowl. He looked first at James, then the woman on the ground, and he did a slow turn to stare at the large man who was responsible for most of the bodily damage done.

"What in the black hells happened here, Beecher?"

"The pris'ner were escapin'," the bull-man murmured, flinching as the captain moved to stare him full in the face.

"Oh, aye, and I suppose that merits you to beat him bloody after you recaptured him, especially when it was done with such ease," the captain quipped. "And which one of you laid hands on the navigator, hmm? Was she attempting to escape this miserable vessel too?" he said louder as he accused the group at large. Each man looked away, choosing to stare at the deck or the sea rather than meet the captain's baleful eye.

James' brows knit in confusion as he looked down at the woman. She was the ship's navigator? Ordinarily that was reserved for the captain alone, or perhaps delegated to his first mate, but a separate station for such a thing was not heard of outside of the Navy.

When no answers were forthcoming from the crew—and James was certainly not going to offer his opinion on the matter—the captain growled, "I should have you all lashed to the masts to take your punishment in the heat. Or perhaps drag you behind the ship and let the sharks teach you a lesson in what happens to men who make better chum than they do honest sailors. Now get out of my sight, you worthless wood maggots. No, not you, Yugan and Horace. You stay."

Two men paused in their bid to turn away, looking back at him with a respectful amount of fear. But the captain only said, "Take our honorary _guest _back to the brig. Make sure he's locked up good and tight so we don't have a repeat of tonight's tomfoolery. I'd hate to start sending able-bodied men, as useless as they may be, down to Davy Jones' locker."

The hard flinch that jolted through James' limbs was unexpected and unpleasant, but what was worse was the sharp gleam in the captain's eye as he caught the movement. James watched him in turn, wariness seeping into his bones, and he sensed this man was far more dangerous than Beecher with his ham-sized fists.

"And give him something to clean himself up with," the captain ordered as the men, Yugan and Horace he assumed, gripped him under the arms and dragged him to his feet. The crewmen pulled him forward, half-guiding and half-dragging across the deck.

But James turned his head and glimpsed a curious scene over his shoulder. The last image he saw before he passed into the hold of the ship was the captain, crouched on one knee as he brushed a blond hair out of the woman's face, the caress holding all the qualities of a father gently soothing his child.


	7. Blue Like Sorrow

**Then**

If Franklin Sharp ever said he didn't enjoy Ona's company, he would have been a liar.

Yes, sometimes the things she said were startling and a lesser man would have fled before them. But Franklin found her fascinating. The day's duties kept him away, but at night he would sneak into the brig, carrying a rolled map of the Spanish Main and a tray of food. He wasn't entirely convinced she was being fed, and by the way she would tear into the bread each night, he suspected his fears were well-founded.

After slipping the tray of food through the slot, he would pull out a crate, flatten the map atop its surface, and they would discuss the mysteries of the sea. At first, it was just a way to pass the time as they headed to port in Nassau. But then Franklin quickly realized her wealth of knowledge was a variable cavern of precious gems.

She knew the breeding waters of the Caribbean _lusca_ in the winter, the migration route for sea monks as they traveled from their territory of Zealand, and she even confirmed the existence of something called "the Devil Whale." She assured him, despite the name, it only took to attacking ships when it felt threatened. Franklin wasn't entirely bought on that premise, but seeing as he didn't have much experience with giant squids and strange fish people, he didn't offer an opinion on the matter.

Finally, after two weeks of this back-and-forth exchange of information that was slowly turning into a sort of cautious comradery, Franklin had to tell her the bad news.

"We'll be to Nassau within the week," he said, smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkles of the map with his hands rather than meet her eye. "And the captain wants to hand you over to naval authorities when we make port."

When the silence stretched on to an uncomfortable length, Franklin chanced a glance upward. Ona had the same wide-eyed fearful look she had had before when he'd told her he knew about the gills. Pity swelled in his chest, and something else that was a more recent development. He was growing protective of her, fiercely so, and the idea of someone mistreating her filled him with as much rage as if she was one of his own sisters.

"Why don't you just return to the waters?" Franklin asked softly. "I could contrive a plan to break you free of the brig. You could go back home, be with others of your kind."

It was a subject he hadn't broached until that point, though his curiosity had always been there. If she truly was a mermaid, there was no reason for them to even get as far as Nassau. Franklin had told her of his plan to make her part of his future crew, but it had only been a pipe dream. A child's dream. He knew the right decision was to free her. A creature like her didn't belong on a ship; no more than a fish belonged on land.

"I cannot," Ona finally answered. Her hands were in her lap and her eyes were cast downward. She still wore the cloth tarp, refusing any other stitch of clothing even now. It was a reminder to him that she had not yet accepted her lot, whatever that may be. Maybe it was time Franklin found out the full story, or as much as he could get out of her.

"Tell me why," Franklin said gently, so it was clear it was a request and not a demand. "Tell me, so I can help you."

She shook her head, long, yellow hair slightly rippling with the movement.

"You cannot help me. The deed is done. There is… no returning home for me now." She still refused to look up at him, and the slump of her shoulders spoke of a person who had given up on living. "It is no less than I deserve."

"I don't believe that for a moment," he responded hotly, sitting with his back straightened. "Whatever happened, whatever's been done to you, there was no justice or mercy in it."

For the very first time, he heard her laugh. He couldn't exactly describe it, only to say it had a sharp quality to it. Like steel swords sliding past each other. It sent a hard chill up his spine and was a stark reminder that this was no human woman that occupied their brig.

"The sea is no longer my home," she finally answered, stark blue eyes meeting his. "And I cannot survive the world of Man. There is only death for me now. The only two choices left are how slowly or swiftly it comes."

Her words should have perhaps chilled him to the bone, but instead stubbornness took hold of Franklin's heart. He leaned forward.

"I don't accept that. And neither should you."

Those blue eyes narrowed but there was a hint of something there, something almost warm and human.

"Bold, cheeky child," she murmured in a low voice.

"Aye, 'twas what my mother always told me."

Franklin gave her a wink before standing up, and then he carefully rolled the map and slipped it under his arm.

"I am serious, though. I'll find a way to smuggle you off the ship, and then we can decide where to go from there. Dress you in breeches and pass you off as a pretty-faced man, maybe. And ports like the one at Nassau, there's always ships looking to hire new crew."

He gave her a fond smile and added, "Death will have to wait a bit longer."

Ona remained silent, her eyes somewhere near his boots, though they flicked back and forth as if she was trying to find the words to say. After a long moment, she raised her eyes to his and asked, "What… is your mother like?"

It was the last question he had ever expected to hear leave her lips. But it was asked so sincerely he didn't doubt the importance of it. But as much as he wanted to answer, there just wasn't time.

"The captain is expecting me in his cabin to discuss our approach to port. But… perhaps I can tell you about her tomorrow?"

The lightness was back in her eyes, the shadows momentarily chased away. Sometimes, she looked this way after their conversations, and perhaps it was with a child's heart he hoped it was because his presence brought some happiness to her dark, lonely existence.

"I would like that, Franklin Sharp."

He tipped his tricorne to her, playing the part of the cheeky child she had accused him of being, and he thought he saw the ghost of a smile.

_Almost,_ he thought with joy.

He turned and mounted the steps, and was so distracted by the lightness in his heart that he didn't see the other man in time, and crashed into his shoulder. Franklin managed to keep his feet, but he immediately scowled up at the sailor, noting with distaste it was the gunner, Robert Stone. He'd never liked Robert—liked him even less now that he'd nearly caused Franklin to crush the map of the Caribbean sea under his arm.

"Watch it," he snapped, the playful demeanor he kept with Ona gone in an instant. The much taller, heavier man sniffed at him disdainfully but said nothing and simply moved past Franklin to enter the galley.

Franklin gave him a parting look of loathing before mounting the steps up to the deck. A small voice in the back of his mind began to whisper in warning, but Franklin ignored it, his spirits too high for him to allow a dullard like Robert to ruin his day.

Putting the man out of his mind, he continued on to the captain's cabin.


	8. A Pirate's Life for Me

**Now**

No matter how often James wiped the damp cloth across his mouth, or how much rum he drank, the taste of blood lingered like a vengeful, copper ghost.

They'd left him a bottle, as well as a small bucket of water and cloth, both which he appreciated. Though if he was being honest with himself, the bottle cheered him more than it should have. It also dulled the ache in his nose—definitely broken—as well as the other sore parts of his body.

_I'll have to thank the crew for that,_ he thought with a wry smile. As far as he could tell, this was simply a merchant vessel, but the men had seemed rough enough to be brigands. Of course, the seas being what they were nowadays, there wasn't much room for the soft-hearted and those of timid nature.

James sighed and leaned his head back against the bars, wondering if this is what pirates felt like as they waited for their dawn appointments with the gallows. Most had been clever enough to stay away from Port Royal, heading for the more pirate-friendly, degenerate bay of Tortuga if they needed to make port. But once in a while, his marines would find a loathsome pirate on his lonesome, prowling the docks.

_Not unlike a certain Jack Sparrow,_ he thought with wry amusement. He hadn't thought about the man in quite a while, but he did now, wondering if Beckett had caught up to him at Shipwreck Cove. The pirates could be extinct by now, for all James knew. At one time, he would have celebrated such extermination. He had put many, many pirates to death himself—a fact that didn't use to bother him in the least.

Now… Now, he didn't know what he felt. The blacksmith's apprentice had gone pirate. His old acquaintance, Mr. Gibbs, had gone pirate. Even his ex-fiancée, brief though their engagement had been, now embraced the skull-and-crossbones flag.

_You were a pirate too, for a time,_ a voice in his thoughts pointed out.

_Yes, as a matter of convenience, _James answered back, annoyed._ It was not born out of an innate love of depravity and lawlessness._

_Same bird, different colors,_ the voice quipped in amusement. That voice sounded an awful lot like a certain pirate captain. One who had undeniably led to the ruination of his life.

_Come now, sour fellow. Ye know ye did that all by yer onesies_, the incessant voice responded.

_Oh, do shut up,_ he snapped moodily.

_Were that I could, mate,_ the voice added with a grin he could feel, if not see. _I'd love nothing more than to vacate the premises because it's nothin' but self-flagellation in here. But seein' as how I'm not real and all…_

"I'm going mad," James muttered, this time aloud.

"Happens to the best of us."

James snapped his head up at the unexpected words, fearing for a moment the voice in his head had come to life. But the figure that separated from the shadows was not Jack Sparrow, and the voice did not belong to him either. It was the captain who stood there, eyeing James with steely grey eyes above his flint-and-silver beard.

_Lord, he moves silent like a ghost, _James thought as he gave a hard swallow.

"I apologize for startling you. And for that," the man said with a nod toward James' bloodied face. "I thought my men knew better, but apparently I was wrong on that account."

James studied him for a moment. He gauged that the man seemed sincere, so he asked the question he had worried upon despite the fact he had much more pressing matters to think about.

"How fares your navigator? She took quite the blow." _And on my behalf as well,_ he didn't add. It was a curious thing that she would put herself between him and danger, especially when he was a stranger. Not to mention it was odd she had been in the brig to begin with. One does not send their prized navigator to clean up prisoner vomit.

The man appraised James in turn, as if searching to see the sincerity of his own words. He must have determined they were genuine, because he answered, and there was a hint of pride in his words.

"It takes more than a punch from a lily-livered craven to slow her down. She'll be right as rain in the morning, and I thank you for inquiring."

James gave him a slow, polite nod. It hadn't sat well with him, a helpless woman being abused by rough men, and he was glad to hear she would be all right.

And now that that subject matter was clarified…

"I assume you are the captain of this vessel," James stated with the confidence that came with his station. Well, his_ previous _station.

"I am," the man answered evenly. He pulled up a crate and sat upon it, facing James through the bars of his cell. He pulled a dark wooden pipe out of his jacket and bit the tip, leaving it unlit. "I thought it was time we had a little chat."

"I concur." James sat up straighter, ignoring the various pains of his body as he met the captain square in the eye. "How did I come to be aboard your ship?"

"Ah, now, we're getting ahead of ourselves, Admiral."

James narrowed his eyes at the flash of amusement on the man's face.

"Oh, aye, I know your rank and status and the colors you fly under. But let's start with a name, shall we?"

James could feel the muscles in his face tense as he clenched his jaw, and he had to force himself to relax. It irked him to remember that no matter his station and breeding, _he_ was the prisoner, and this man was the master.

"James Norrington." He didn't add any titles or embellishments to his name, because in truth, he wasn't sure he still possessed any.

"But you're an Admiral with the Company, yes?" the captain asked. James was trying to place his accent. It was English, without a doubt and it sounded like that of the upper class of Londoners. But there was a quality to it that made him think the man might be self-taught. A man of low birth who made a name for himself and didn't want anyone to know he was of lesser status, and therefore molded his speech patterns to that of the upper echelons of society.

"I was," James relented. "I know not where I stand with the Company now. I might have a better idea if I knew how I came to be here."

That last statement was given with a bit of an edge, but the captain only gave him a cool stare. After a moment, he gave an answer, but not the one James expected.

"Captain Franklin Sharp. That's my name," the man answered. He pulled out his pipe and examined it as if it was of great interest.

_Sharp… Franklin Sharp…_ Where had he heard that name before?

"I can see by the look on your face my name is not an unknown one," Sharp said with a hint of a gleam in his eye. "Have you placed it yet?"

James racked his brain, knowing the information was somewhere. It was a name he had heard, before, in his previous life at Port Royal. A story. Tales. _Pirates._

"You. You were one of the survivors on the vessel the _Intrepid_," he responded, unable to keep the awe out of his voice. "After that heinous pirate attack. I… I am sorry for your loss," he added when he realized he was being quite insensitive. Even though it must have been over three decades since the event, it wasn't likely something one simply forgot.

James didn't think he imagined the darkness that passed over Sharp's face, but then the man raised his eyebrows and said, "It was a long time ago. Needless to say, I'm not fond of piracy and we need not be at odds with one another, you and I."

The smile he gave the captain was bitter and ironic as he looked about this cell.

"The circumstances seem to say otherwise."

"For your own sake more than mine. Think of it as being my temporary guest, Admiral."

"Am I in here for my own protection, then?" he asked, hoping he was correct in the captain's unspoken meaning. He knew he was when Sharp's expression was as grim as a grave.

"It was my navigator who spotted you first, even before the lookout. She's got sharp eyes, she does," he said with a fondness James couldn't miss. But then the affection dropped from his voice and there was only bleakness to be found. "Dived into the water to retrieve your body. We pulled the both of you onto the deck and it seemed we were too late to do you any good."

James had shivered when Sharp had said the words "your body" and he waited for the rest of the tale as anxiety churned in his cut.

"One moment, I swear you were as dead as mutton. And then, the next…" Franklin met his gaze square in the eye, "you weren't." After a moment of silence when James said nothing, he added, "Care to explain, Admiral?"

He felt like he was going to be sick. He could hardly confront what had happened to himself, let alone trying to explain the situation to another person. How did one explain that they were slain aboard the _Flying Dutchman_ by a member of Davy Jones' cursed crew, to then be, presumably, tossed overboard, and then awaken with a hole through their chest. A tale such as that would not likely land him his freedom nor the captain's trust.

"I'm unsure that I can," he answered slowly, glancing down at his boots as he did so. They had once been so polished they reflected their surroundings. Now they were scuffed with neglect and stained by seawater.

"Not sure that you can? Or not sure that you want to?"

James raised his eyes back to the man's keen ones. The man's surname was an appropriate one indeed.

"I do not mean to be difficult, Captain, but the less you know the safer you and your crew will be. In fact, the wisest course of action would be to drop me at the nearest port and forget you ever saw me." Realizing how presumptuous his words were, James looked away and added, "I cannot repay you for your troubles, but I can at least prevent further difficulties plaguing you by relieving you of my presence."

"That's mighty thoughtful of you," Sharp responded with an easygoing smile. "Pointless, if the _Flying Dutchman_ is already dogging our heels, but thoughtful nonetheless."

James tried not to choke on his own air. He needed to diffuse the situation, deny his involvement with the _Dutchman_, but by God, he had never been a good liar.

_Ye perfected the art of treachery, though,_ the not-Jack Sparrow voice mused.

"I don't know what you mean," James spoke aloud, ignoring the affliction in his mind.

"Let's dispense with the lies and get down to business, eh?" the captain said as he leaned forward on his crate. He pointed the unlit pipe at James and said, "There have been rumors for quite some time that the _Dutchman_ sails under the East India Company's command. That Davy Jones is under the thumb of the Crown, setting his beast and upon any ship sailing under a black flag. It's not hard to see that once your masters have eradicated the pirates and their supremacy over the seas is uncontested, the hammer will come down on the rest of us. Not to kill us, no," he said as he put his pipe back between his teeth, "but to make sure we are obedient hounds on a tight leash. And with the port tariffs and taxes being what they are, that leash is already turning into a noose."

James felt his hackles rise at the phrase "your masters," but who was he to deny it? Beckett had owned him just as surely as he had owned Jones. There had even been times he had felt sympathy for the dread captain. But of course, that had changed in the end when James had changed his allegiances.

_And they say women have fickle hearts,_ the false Sparrow said with a mirthful grin James could almost see. _Yer about as steadfast as my compass, mate._

"As I said," James spoke through clenched teeth. How was it that an imaginary version of Sparrow was almost as exasperating as the real thing? "Your safest assurance is to release me at the nearest port."

_Oh! Ask him to drop you at Tortuga!_ the voice clamored with excitement. _Yer a wanted fugitive by now, mate. You realize that, right? Or are you really so thick as to ask him to drop you at yer precious fort?_

He was spared from the question, one which sent barbs through his heart, by Captain Sharp sighing and rising to his feet.

"I'm not entirely sure that is the safest course, Admiral. Not until such a time as you choose to be honest with me. I can't know the right decision to make if I don't know your story."

_My story…_

James tried and failed to hide the bitter smile that crossed his lips, causing the cut on his lip to twinge. It hurt to smile in more ways than one.

"All you need to know about my story is that it is filled with misfortune, poor decisions made with good intentions, and… abject treachery."

Sharp gave him a cursory glance, a single eyebrow raised.

"Sounds like a tale worth hearing to me."

"It's really not," James responded dourly.

"Well, give me the word when you want to tell it. Otherwise, we'll remain on our current course." The captain was about to turn when he hesitated and said, "Is there anything I can get you to… aid in your comfort while you're our guest?"

_There's that word again._

"My freedom," James said, smiling bitterly. The captain gave a chuckle, not seeming to take offense to James' dry mirth. His humor had always been sharp, but over the past two years it had taken on a harsh, jagged edge. No surprise there, really.

"Aye, your freedom can be yours. When you choose to accept it is up to you."

As the captain began to mount the steps leading out of the brig, James called out, "Actually… there is one thing I would like to have, if you would be so inclined."

Sharp glanced over his shoulder and said, "And what would that be?"

"The state of my hair is in dire straits," James said with a half-smirk on his face. "Do you have any ribbon I may borrow?"

"Aye," the captain said with another chuckle. James thought he might, as the captain kept his own hair up with a ribbon. It was black, as was common amongst seamen, but the tips were edged in white. James wasn't sure why, but he liked it.

After Sharp had departed, James ran his fingers through his unkempt hair. It was tangled and grimy from its time in the seawater, and he straightened it out as best he could. His facial hair was coming in too, and before long he would look like a proper rough man of the sea.

A brigand. A ne'er-do-well. A traitor.

_A pirate._


	9. Hatching Schemes

As soon as he entered the cabin, Ona rose to her feet, worry etched onto the sharp line of her brow. It made Franklin smile the tiniest bit—even after all these years, she was still protective of him.

Not that either of them believed their current prisoner was much of a threat. No, James Norrington might not be a danger himself, but the mystery surrounding him was one that unsettled the crew. And they _were _a threat.

"What did he say?" she inquired as she met him halfway across the width of his cabin. The swelling of her right cheek was starting to go down, but the discoloration was beginning to rise to the surface.

_Beecher is a lucky bastard for still breathing,_ he thought with simmering ire. But Ona was still waiting on an answer, so he responded, "He's bein' dodgy in regards to how he came to be adrift at sea, but one thing's for sure. The name of the Davy Jones' ship invokes a deep fear in him."

Her eyes widened at his words, and Franklin walked past her to his personal store of spirits. They would be sorely needed for this conversation.

Her voice was curious but not especially concerned as she asked, "Then it's true? The East India Trading Company is controlling the captain of the _Dutchman_?"

"I'm afraid so," he responded tightly. He pulled out the cork on his bottle of gin and held it up in invitation, but Ona declined with a shake of her head. He shrugged and then turned back to pour himself a tumbler. "I'm sure Admiral James Norrington of the EITC could tell us more, but his fear of the _Dutchman_ exceeds his fear of me. Perhaps a new tactic will loosen his tongue."

This last statement was said more to himself than to her, but it got the wheels in his head turning. Intimidation wouldn't work on a man like Norrington, but something else might. He suddenly turned to face Ona, giving her a close, thoughtful look. She watched him in return, waiting for him to speak his mind with that disconcerting patience of hers.

"I've had a thought."

Ona raised her eyebrows, the hint of an impish sparkle in her eyes. _Who is the cheeky one now?_ he mused.

"After our admiral made his miraculous resurrection, you said his soul belonged to another, yes?"

The sparkle left her eyes, replaced by a dark, grim shadow. It pained him to see it, but now was not the time for delicacy.

"Yes."

"Is it possible his soul is owned by… one Davy Jones?" He watched her expression as it reflected the trouble he felt himself.

"It could be possible."

Franklin nodded. He'd thought as much. The Crown messing with powers that shouldn't be messed with, well, there were bound to be consequences, and poor Mr. Norrington seemed to be caught up in them.

"If that's the case, then it would be accurate to say that any knowledge the admiral possesses would be important for us to gain? Life-saving information, if you will."

Ona's brows furrowed.

"I do not understand. Why would it matter if he belonged to Jones' crew or not? You plan to release him either way."

"Aye," he agreed. "But it's _when_ I'll be releasing him that matters. Dump him now, or wait until we get to Port Royal?"

She opened her mouth, paused, and then said, "You can't possibly mean to throw him overboard?"

"If the _Dutchman_ is on our coattails, then yes," he said before proceeding to pour the gin down his gullet. It burned like green fire. "I will throw him to the waters and sleep well tonight."

The look she gave him sent a cold chill up his spine. He'd seen that look before, but Franklin stood his ground for a few more seconds before he added, "But… if I could get the admiral to divulge more information, I may be able to ascertain how much of a threat his presence continues to be. It's not just the _Dutchman_ we have to concern ourselves with, after all."

"Do you think they'll mutiny?"

Of course Ona would know the other threat was the crew. Especially a crew caught-up in a frenzied hysteria that could not be doused with reason or threats. They had both learned that hard lesson long ago.

_Damn the Company,_ he silently cursed. _Damn them for riling up the seas and making all the decent men flee inland, leaving only the worst dregs for hire._

"If they do," Franklin said before he downed the glass in his hand, "then I suppose Davy Jones will add a few more useless souls to his Locker. But I don't want you to concern yourself with them, Ona." He gave her a long look before he presented his idea. His very brilliant idea.

"I want you to befriend the admiral."

Ona gave him a stare so cutting it seemed to pass right through him, and he felt the need to pour himself another glass. So he did.

"We need more information on the _Dutchman_," Franklin said when she still hadn't spoken. "Norrington has said needed information but is reluctant to part with it. He needs to be… greased, as it were. Gently coaxed and plied until he opens up of his own accord." He gave her a half-cocked smile as he said this next part. "He's a man. You're a woman."

"I fail to see the relevance," she said in a voice so deadpan he knew she was being sincere. Despite her many years in the world of men, there were still many things she was quite ignorant of. The effect a woman has on a man being one of them.

_Well, some men,_ he thought to himself with a measure of amusement. Franklin had never looked at her, or any woman really, with that sort of interest, and he figured it was one of the reasons he had eventually gained her trust. And Ona, in turn, seemed completely oblivious when men looked at her in_ that _particular sort of way.

Which was a shame, because getting Norrington to notice her in _that _sort of way might be very useful, indeed.

"Just talk to him," he said, sighing. "Express a little sympathy. He's being held captive on a hostile ship, and he could use a friendly face." He paused, feeling a hint of deviousness on his part. "He seemed… concerned over your welfare."

If Franklin thought this would move her to some kind of emotion, he was dead wrong.

"Why?" she asked without even a hint of understanding.

_Oh Lord,_ he thought as he ran a hand down his tired face. _I am not teaching her this part of being human. She'll either get there or she won't._

"The admiral is a gentleman," Franklin said pointedly. "Which means he will have special concern for the welfare of a lady." Another pause. "You being the lady in this situation."

Now her expression was downright hostile, but Franklin still had a card up his sleeve to lay out on the table.

"I know you went down to see him, Ona. That's how he escaped the brig."

By the way her body remained perfectly still, as if poised to fly like a bird into the night, Franklin knew he was right.

"It's not a sin to be curious." He took another sip of gin, trying to slow his pace because it would not be wise to be sloshed on a ship with a semi-mutinous crew.

"I put us in danger."

She wouldn't look at him, and her posture was uncertain—an unusual trait for her.

"I was… caught unawares. I underestimated his need to escape. It won't happen again."

Franklin held up his hands and said, "I'm not angry, Ona. My consternation is reserved for the men for nearly beating the admiral to death and for laying a hand on you."

Ona raised a hand to her marred cheek, lightly touching the injury with her fingertips. Her expression was more intrigued than alarmed, as if she found the wound a sort of curiosity.

Franklin, on the other hand, felt nothing but barely-suppressed rage at the sight of the mark. He couldn't entirely keep the heat from his voice as he asked in a low voice, "Who did it?"

"Beecher," Ona responded distractedly.

Franklin scoffed. "Somehow, I'm not surprised. He'll pay for his troubles, I can promise you that."

Her eyes focused back onto him, her brows knit with concern.

"It will breed discontent amongst the crew. They distrust my presence already; punishing one of their own may further fuel their resentment."

It saddened him in that moment—hearing her speak of the attack from such a cold, critical point of view. If he was just her captain, he might have appraised the situation in a similar manner. But he wasn't just her captain, and she wasn't just a navigator.

Franklin put down his glass, crossed the room to her, and gently took her hand in his. She didn't like to be touched—tolerated it from him—so he didn't do it often. But he did it now, wanting to impress on her the seriousness of his words.

"The crew must understand that harming you will not be tolerated. Not for an instant."

Ona looked down at him, her eyes so blue and round he could almost, for a moment, forget what she was. Her next words were a stark reminder of what he couldn't afford to forget.

"If they present a threat to me, I can take care of the issue myself," she answered evenly.

_Aye, I know you can. That's what I'm concerned about,_ he didn't say aloud. Instead, he patted her hand and released it.

"So," he said, suddenly all business as he turned back to his cabinet of liquor and picked up his glass. "I'll worry about the men, you focus on our guest. Will you speak to the good admiral and see what insights you can gleam from him?"

"I…"

He turned back at her hesitant response. She was rubbing the palm of her hand, the one he had just held in his own.

"Yes?"

"I'm not… that is, I don't know how to…" She made a frustrated noise, apparently vexed by her struggle to speak. "I am a stranger to him, and he to me. What could I possibly say to him?"

"Ah," Franklin mused. "But you're not a stranger. You pulled him from the waters and saved his life, a fact I made him aware of. That, my dear, comes with a familiarity. A connection. He owes you his life, and a man like him isn't soon to forget it."

Her expression was one of surprise. Franklin could count on one hand how many times he had seen her caught unawares, and now it had happened twice in one evening.

"If he tells you anything of import, I would like to hear it straightaway," Franklin said as by means of dismissal, hoping she would figure out the rest on her own. If Ona couldn't succeed where Franklin had failed, then the admiral was as good as dead.

Franklin wasn't happy with the situation, but he wouldn't make his ship a target for the dreaded _Dutchman_, either.

"One last thing," he said when she turned to leave. She paused, casting him a sidelong glance that showed her vast patience did have a horizon. Franklin forced his expression to remain as blank as possible.

"The admiral was been dealt many significant injuries to his person." He plucked a bottle of clear liquor from his cabinet and handed it to her. "For purification of his wounds. Oh, and there should be some clean linens in the galley. We can't have our prisoner succumbing to flesh rot, now can we?"

His voice held a little too much earnestness. Ona stared between him and the bottle, grasped its neck and pulled it out of his grip, and marched to the door without a word, slamming it behind her harder than was called for. But Franklin wasn't upset. He was triumphant.

There wasn't time to self-congratulate himself on a scheme well-planned. Instead, he went to his desk full of maps of the Spanish Main and began to plot his next scheme:

How to keep them all out of the ghastly hands of Davy Jones.


	10. Ghosts and Revelations

Ona did not enjoy sleeping.

Lying down on a mattress, feeling the press of the Earth as it weighed her down against the fabric—that sensation was not so unpleasant. Neither was waking up to a calm, crisp morning, the salt of the sea breeze the first thing to greet her.

But the act of falling asleep, of _being_ asleep, was her least favorite thing about being human. To be sure, her people had a kind of sleep, but it was shallow and of shorter lengths. Bursts of rest, to be more accurate. Light enough that when danger lurked, one could immediately awaken and swim to safety.

But to sleep for hours at a time, so deeply that it might as well be a living death? That, to Ona, was asking for a sudden and unexpected demise.

Ona hated to slumber, but one thing she did enjoy… was when others did. When they slept, men were quiet, unimposing, and most importantly, ignoring her. Because if there was one thing Ona hated more than sleeping, it was men staring at her. Too often she had been tempted to claw the hateful organs from their head, but had held back because of _him_. The child-turned-captain. Franklin had showed her how to survive in Man's world, and unfortunately, it meant refraining from tearing them limb from limb.

A disappointment, really.

But as Ona stared down at the one named James Norrington, currently leaning against the corner of the cage in a sitting position, she realized another curious thing about men who slumbered. Sometimes, they looked younger. Innocent. As if they would not take the world in their hands and squeeze the life from it if they could. This man, called an admiral, did not look like one who waged war and won honor through killing.

_Yes,_ she thought with a tilt of her head. _He looks almost small, despite those gangly limbs._ He seemed to be nothing but arms and legs, and she wondered how he managed to stay steady on a swaying ship.

Ona wondered about Franklin's words, about showing a "friendly face" to their captive. She didn't know why he would suggest such a thing, and she wasn't altogether happy about it either. Her face had never invoked feelings of friendliness from anyone, except maybe Franklin. But he was different. Special.

She appraised the sight of James Norrington with vague suspicion. Thick broadcloth navy coat with gold trim. Scuffed boots and a blood-stained linen shirt. Unshaven face with black circles under his eyes. Dark brown hair held loosely against his neck. He wasn't special like Franklin. He was a man, and men weren't to be trusted.

And yet… she'd pulled him from the water. Ona had no explanation. No piece of evidence to show why she had done such a thing. She hadn't known exactly what was going to happen that night, but she'd felt something would happen. And when she'd spotted that distant figure bobbing on the dark waves…

Her troubled thoughts ground to a halt when she heard the man give a noise. A pained groan, a distraught sigh. Then he opened his eyes and blinked them rapidly, squinting around the brig as he did so. His eyes—a startling green that she'd never seen in a man's face before—passed over where she stood in the shadows. She didn't bother to make her presence known, not yet. She wasn't entirely sure what to say, and in any case, he was quickly distracted by another matter.

The naval officer pulled his coat and linen shirt aside and was now staring at his chest. There had been a gaping, bloodless wound there before. Ona had noticed it when he had initially been brought onboard. But, alarmingly, the hole was now gone, and instead a solid circle of dark green scales radiated out from the spot. Like a point of origin.

Ona was immediately fascinated—the man, immediately horrified. His breaths came in-and-out in short, irregular gasps, and he seemed on the verge of losing his composure.

She remembered Franklin's instructions: _Express a little sympathy._ She wasn't sure how to do that in the best of moments, let alone when the man was clearly going to have some kind of fit. Perhaps stopping him from collapsing into a blubbering mess would be a good place to start.

Taking a half-step forward, Ona hit the toe of her boot on the bottle of alcohol Franklin had given her, forgotten at her feet. The man startled at the noise, and he quickly snatched shut his shirt and coat over the spread of scales across his chest.

"Who's there? Show yourself!" he called out in a voice that slightly trembled, his eyes darting across the dark corners of the hold. Ona reached down, picked up the alcohol and cloth, and then straightened and stepped into the circle of light that was cast by the nearby lamp.

His green eyes immediately fixated on her, his dark brows drawn in a way that was hard and piercing. It made her feel pinned to the spot, exposed and illuminated.

Ona really, really hated being looked at. But she wanted to aid Franklin in his task of finding out more about the _Dutchman_. And didn't she have a stake in it too? With that in mind, Ona took another step forward, and another, and stopped when she was still several feet away.

The man stared at her warily, much as she would expect an animal in a cage would. But he said nothing, so she spoke first.

"I've come to dress your wounds. Don't attempt to escape again."

They stared at each other for a long moment, the air heavy and humid between them. Ona was about to turn on her heels and leave, promises made be-damned, but then she saw something strange. The corner of his lips tucked into a smile, one that was surprisingly grim.

"Where could I possibly go?" was his answer.

Ona blinked. This was the first time she had heard his voice clearly, and it was… unexpectedly pleasant. Rich, but with a sharp edge to it. Resonant. Deep.

_Alluring._

She was suddenly angry and offended. Ona should have been above the temptation of voice. After all, had she not once wielded it as a weapon herself? And for this… this _mortal_ to dare and try to have any sort of effect on her? It was downright insulting.

She didn't realize the man had been watching her, waiting for a response, until he spoke.

"I will not attempt to escape. You have my word."

_Your word means piss in the wind,_ she wanted to spit back at him, using the colorful language she had picked up from various crews. Instead, she said:

"I expect you to keep it."

He nodded. "Your distrust is well-founded. I haven't exactly displayed my best behavior."

She peered at him, expecting to find signs of sarcasm or deceit in his eyes, but she found none. Just the emerald depths that stared back at her, intense even in the softening glow of the lamplight.

_Impudent man._

Ona reached down to one of the pockets of her dress and fished out the ring of keys, unlocked the door, and slid inside and locked it behind her. She was ready for him this time, prepared to subdue him if necessary. But Norrington simply rose to his feet, a slow process in which he winced. But he never took his eyes from her, nor did he move from his corner of the cell.

Could it be that he was trying to appear non-threatening to her, she wondered? Surely not. Why would he care about trying to make her less uneasy in his presence?

_The admiral is a gentleman. Which means he will have special concern for the welfare of a lady._

Ona wanted to scoff at Franklin's words, dismiss them as the ridiculous notions that they were, but she couldn't deny the man's bearing. His rigid posture, his hands clasped behind his back. She was half-expecting a crisp salute to be issued next.

_At ease, Admiral,_ she wanted to mockingly quip. Instead, she said, "Are you going to stand over there all night or come over here so I can bandage you up?"

Norrington blinked, his brow twitching as if in surprise or perhaps amusement. Ona didn't care to find out; she looked away from him in order to sit on the floor of the cell, making sure her back was against the door. She noted the bloodied strips of cloth nearby, as well as the bucket of water, and she ignored the rags in favor of the water.

After a moment of hesitation, the admiral came to join her, sitting in in front of her but not close enough to touch. She ignored his presence as she laid out the linen she had brought with her across her lap, and began to tear it into strips.

Or, at least… she tried to ignore him. It was a difficult thing when her instinct was to pull away and hiss. He was tall, too tall, even while sitting he towered over her. Distrust vibrated through her bones.

Unfortunately, no matter how resentful she was of the situation, she had to at least look in his general direction to address the admiral's wounds.

Ona hesitated before she pulled her eyes upward, taking him in as a whole as she went. His knuckles were bloodied and split from having fought against the crew. There were cuts on his face, an especially nasty one splitting his lip, but the rest of the injuries were most likely under the skin and would form into bruising.

And if there was internal bleeding, well… there wasn't much she could do about that.

As soon as their gazes me, Ona knew she had made a miscalculation. The green eyes held her, trapped her in place, and she felt like a fish caught in cruel netting. She snapped her eyes to the side and lamented the fact he was awake. It had been so much easier to interact with him when he had been unconscious and unaware, soaked and cold on the deck of the ship.

After taking a few seconds to collection herself, Ona continued her task. She next looked down in the vicinity of the missing buttons around the top of his coat. She remembered how they had popped out of the thick cloth when she had ripped them asunder in her desperate bid to find his heartbeat. And she _had_ been desperate, a fact that perturbed her. At the time, it had seemed so important to save his life. She still didn't know why the sense of urgency had been so acute, and it filled her with unease now.

There was nothing to do about it now. Best to clean his wounds; the faster the better so she could leave the damned brig.

Ona held out her palm. "Give me your hand."

"Which one?" he asked. It was a reasonable question. And it annoyed her.

"Doesn't matter," she responded curtly. He hesitated, then placed left his hand into hers, facing downward so their palms were touching.

_Warm,_ was her initial, unbidden thought. Her second was more a reaction, a shiver of revulsion at the physical contact.

If the man noticed it, he didn't comment.

Ona examined his knuckles before grabbing one of the clean clothes and dipped it in the water. She then washed out the blood and debris, taking care not to rub too harshly. Not because she cared about his comfort, never that, but because she didn't want to open the wounds further, which would delay her taking leave of the brig.

Norrington remained blessedly silent as she washed his wounds. Only when she poured the alcohol across his gashes did he make a small noise of pain. She gripped his fingers so he would hold steady until the alcohol dried from his skin. Then she wrapped his hand with the linen, carefully and methodically, over and under and around again, until she had run out of cloth. She found the other end of the strip and tied them together into a knot that would hold.

She released his hand, and without needing to tell him, he held the other forward. She glared at it a moment, as if it had wronged her somehow, and then she repeated the same protocol.

It wasn't long before the blessed silence was dashed to pieces against the hull.

"You have a healer's hands."

Ona had to pause for a moment, swallow her animosity, and then she continued to the alcohol portion of the cleansing, hoping the pain would shut him up. But he didn't so much as flinch when the liquid hit his skin this time. She gave an internal sigh.

"I don't," she responded grudgingly. "Franklin taught me."

"Franklin?"

Ona pursed her lips.

"Captain Sharp."

"Oh. I see."

By his tone, the admiral had been surprised of her use of Franklin's given name. But what did she care? He could think what he liked, as it wasn't any of his business.

Unfortunately, his hands were bandaged too soon, and she was forced to contend with the next area of damage. Ona grabbed a new cloth, wet it with clean water, and then realized she would have to move closer to reach his face.

Trying not to scowl too visibly, she moved her legs beneath her and sat on her heels, her knees braced against the hard wood floor with her skin cushioned by the thick cloth of her skirt. It was only half as uncomfortable as playing ship surgeon to the strange man.

Ona tried to look at his face without actually meeting his eye. And failed horribly. His green eyes were staring right at her, and from this distance, she could see they weren't just green. They were a very light shade of _sea_ green.

Suddenly, she had the urge to take the bucket and fling it across the cell, smashing it to bits against the iron bars. Instead, she raised her hand and began to clean the blood that remained on his face. He had done some of the work himself, but without a mirror to guide him, there were spots he had missed and the crimson liquid had caked to his skin. His left temple, along his hairline, around his mouth. She very purposefully didn't meet his eyes again, instead honing her focus on the bits of skin that mattered, ignoring the rest as well as the man himself.

Unfortunately, being ignored seemed to compel the cursed man to speak.

"The crew fears me. But not you. Why is that?"

If Ona thought his voice had been compelling from across the room, it was even more evocative now. Her intense loathing of the situation was in stark contrast to her inner desire to listen to the melodic baritone of his voice.

It was absolutely infuriating.

"They believe you are a monster," she said with vague contempt. Though for whom, she left that a mystery for him to wonder. "An abhorrent, undead thing pulled from the sea."

"And you don't?" Norrington asked with an elegant raise of a single brow.

"You're merely a man," Ona answered simply. "Men can be monstrous in their own way, but you're no more a monster than any other man on this ship."

Now both of his eyebrows quirked upwards.

"They also recognize the significance of your uniform and wish to throw you overboard as a matter of principle," she added, almost flippant with her airy tone. "You'll find no love for the East India Trading Company aboard this vessel."

Something passed across his face in that moment. Something wholly unexpected. It was a familiar expression, a shadow of… regret? Grief? Loss? It made her pause, which in turn, made her irritated with herself.

"Truth be told," Norrington said in a low voice, "I'm fairly sure my days with the Royal Navy and the Company are over."

She hesitated again, her cloth hovering over a bloodied spot on his jaw. She could almost feel Franklin nudging her in spirit. _Sympathy, Ona. Sympathy._

"It… sounds like you're in a difficult position."

The dark chuckle that escaped him caused her to swallow involuntarily. But he wasn't looking at her, his eyes distant, too caught up in his own pain to notice the way she had completely stiffened.

"It would be more accurate to say I've been in a difficult position for a long time. Though it's of my own making, so I can hardly complain about it, can I?"

Ona wasn't sure if an answer was required of her—rhetorical questions were one of those things she still had difficulty grasping. That, and words which had two meanings, one of a tawdry nature.

Thankfully, it seemed he didn't need an answer. Unfortunately, he wanted something else.

"What is your name, if I may be so bold as to ask?"

_Bold, cheeky child._

Ona blinked at the voice from the past, her own, rising into her mind as if a conjured spirit.

_No,_ she denied silently, shooing away the ghosts of memory. _No. It's not the same. This isn't the same._

"Ona," she answered blankly. She went back to rubbing clean the spot on his jaw, hoping that would be the end of his questioning.

It wasn't.

"And how did you come to be aboard this fine vessel, Ona?"

"I could ask you the same thing," she shot back.

His eyebrows rose again, so elegantly she knew he must have done it on purpose. "As I understand it, I have you to thank for that."

Her hands froze again, this time because she didn't know how to react at the odd weight in his voice. Was he… angry that she had saved his life? Resentful that she hadn't just left him there, to drift forever across the sea? Something like empathy pulsed within her. His sense of loss. His bitterness at captivity. It was all too familiar. Too personal.

_No. It's not the same._

"I… apologize," he said when she still hadn't moved, his tone taking on a tinge of melancholy. "You saved my life. I should be grateful."

Ona briefly made eye contact, long enough to verify for herself that he wasn't trying to play a cruel jest, and then her eyes flitted away again. His eyes were nearly as damning as his voice.

"You didn't ask for this," she finally said in a tone that wasn't completely banal, hoping it would convey the sympathy she was _supposed_ to be displaying. Except… it wasn't entirely an act. Being found, adrift at sea, in a body that seemed unfamiliar and foreign?

_It's not the same,_ she denied, more weakly this time.

"No," he agreed softly, "but neither did you. And yet, you took on this burden willingly. You were even harmed because of my foolish actions."

The place on her cheek where Beecher had struck her suddenly warmed, and she knew without looking that his eyes were settled there.

"Beecher is responsible for my injuries. Not you," she responded, the annoyance back in her voice. She finished cleaning the spot of his jaw, realizing she had lingered there for a little too long, and picked up a new, clean cloth. This one had not been torn into stripes, and she doused it with alcohol, wrinkling her nose at the noxious fumes, and then she raised it back to his face to begin cleansing the open wounds.

"Still. I appreciate what you did," the admiral spoke again, apparently not understanding the concept of _companionable silence_. "Trying to stop the crew, but also diving into the water to pull me out. It was… very brave of you."

_He owes you his life, and a man like him isn't soon to forget it._

Franklin's advice now seemed prophetic. Everything he predicted had come to pass.

_What is that man up to?_ Ona wondered with a dull sense of dread. Seeking more information about the _Dutchman_ and her monstrous captain was one thing—but Ona suspected Franklin had his own agenda he was tending to in the backdrop of events.

"I just did what I thought was the right course of action," Ona said, discomforted by his praise of her. She wasn't brave, she just… didn't experience fear the same way as most men. And that wasn't the same thing as bravery.

"It's more than what most would have done," Norrington responded, apparently not giving up. Ona had kept her eyes strictly on his wounds, but now… she found herself staring at his split lip. Initially, it was to examine the wound, but watching him speak from his close proximity had become an odd fascination. And in her distracted state of mind, she voiced a question she had not intended to ask.

"Why were you in the water?"

Her sudden question seemed to startle him, and she admitted, her boldness startled herself a little too. His lips formed into a sharp smile, which caused him to wince as his wound reopened. Annoyed at being reminded how fragile men were, Ona grabbed the wash cloth and pressed it against his lower lip until it finally stopped bleeding again.

"I apologize for making your job more difficult."

Before she could stop to think of what she was saying, Ona said somewhat irritably, "This isn't my _job_."

Norrington hesitated, and then said in a slow, deliberate tone, "Of course. Because you're the navigator."

She said nothing, but she_ did_ mentally curse Franklin with all the colorful language she knew, and wondered what else he had revealed about her.

"And how does a woman happen to come aboard a ship and take the role as navigator?"

"I asked a question first."

Norrington didn't find her belligerent tone offensive, if his chuckle was anything to go by.

"That you did. But I'm afraid…" He sighed tiredly, and his warm breath caressed her skin. She fought the urge to pull back to a safer distance. "I'm not sure you would believe me even if I told you."

"You don't know what I believe," she replied with a tad too much aggression. She knew she was doing it all wrong. She was supposed to be a _friendly face_ and a _sympathetic ear_. But her face was unapproachable and her ear unwilling to listen. How was she supposed to do this?

The admiral didn't answer for a long moment. When he did, it was not at all what she expected.

"I was stationed about the _Dutchman _when Davy Jones took liberties that Lord Beckett did not appreciate. I was tasked with keeping him in line. Instead, I ignored my orders and released our onboard prisoners, pirates of Sao Feng's crew, and helped them to escape."

"And why would you do that?" she asked, confusion plain in her voice. Norrington's name was not unknown to her, even though they had never crossed paths before. Everyone who sailed the Spanish Main knew of the Scourge of Piracy, and the idea that he would disobey orders to help pirates made no sense at all.

"Because," he said with a sigh of unusual gravitas, "my ex-fiancée was one of them. She was… the captain, actually."

Ona stared at him, her jaw slightly lax as shock robbed her of her words. He gave her a smile that had too much bitterness in it to be mistaken for anything joyous.

"My treachery was discovered, and… I suppose that's when I was thrown overboard. I don't clearly recall."

For the first time, Norrington broke eye contact. His inability to meet her gaze told Ona much more than words could. Apparently, he wasn't yet ready to tell how he came to have a hole in his chest, or that that hole was now covered in scales.

Ordinary, Ona wouldn't have pushed the issue. That was one thing she didn't have to learn from Franklin—the art of knowing when not to press a subject was something _he_ had learned from _her. _But if Franklin was being sincere and the_ Dutchman_ was an impending danger, then she would need to… expedite matters.

Under the guise of wanting to examine his chest for wounds, Ona reached for the open portion of his linen shirt. She was just about to touch his skin with her outstretched fingertips, when both of her wrists were suddenly trapped in Norrington's steely grip. His fingers dug into her flesh so tightly she thought she heard the bones shift.

Ona glared up at him and saw the earlier look of panic and fear there, as if what lie underneath filled him with existential dread.

"You don't need to look," he spoke barely above a whisper. "Not there."

They stared at each, her gauging if she should shake him free and rip open his shirt to expose his secret. He, most likely studying to see how much she knew in regards to his affliction.

She caved first, knowing to push any farther would do more damage than good.

"As you say," she muttered with a prickly edge. "May I have my hands back?

The admiral promptly released her wrists, looking simultaneously relieved and a little bit like he would be sick.

"We're done," she said stiffly. As she gathered up her supplies, Norrington's voice broke the heavy silence.

"Not being frightened of a washed-up, doggedly-ragged naval officer is one thing. Does none of this frighten you at all?"

Ona knew he spoke of the _Dutchman_ and her crew, and perhaps he was speaking of the men onboard the _Mariner's Lament_ too. Either way, her response was the same.

"There are worse things to fear." And there were. Oh yes, there were.

After the supplies were hastily gathered in her arms, Ona slipped through the cell door and locked it behind her. When she looked up, Norrington was scant inches away, sending her heart into a startled rhythm. His green eyes captured the full of her attention, and oh, how she began to hate that they could do that.

"I know I am nothing more than a stranger to you, and you have no reason to believe me, but it is imperative that I be freed." His eyes were bright with desperation as they searched her face, perhaps seeking sign of clemency and mercy. "I must find what became of the prisoners. The ones I spoke of earlier."

Ona didn't back away as she wished to, instead taking a half-step forward so that they were in such close proximity it was difficult to keep him in focus.

"Captain Sharp already agreed to release you at Port Royal."

"That is too long!" he snapped, showing for the first time his patience and restraint had its limits. He sighed, the picture of a weary man. When he spoke again, it was through the grit of his teeth.

"I need a closer port. Or barring that, a longboat."

Ona studied the crease of his brow and the tight clench of his jaw. His sincerity seemed genuine, so she asked him a single question.

"Why?"

His lips slightly parted, as if Norrington fully intended to answer, but nothing came forth. His sea-green eyes drifted closed, and the weight of the world seemed to rest on his broad shoulders.

"I can't tell you."

That non-answer made her angrier than anything else he had done thus far.

"Then we've nothing more to discuss."

Ona turned from the cell, intending to leave the prisoner to his fate and think of him never again… but was stopped, yet again, by his iron grip. Norrington had reached through the bars to grab her by the arm, his expression as desperate as a drowning man's.

"Please! You _must _listen to me!"

Ona grabbed his fingers and twisted them back so severely she heard the joints pop. Norrington gave a startled cry and released her, retreating into the safety of his cage.

She waited, silent and tensed, for him to try and assail her again.

But he didn't. The look that passed across his face was oddly regretful. She thought it was in regards to the fact he had earned himself another injury, but as Ona turned away, his quiet words drifted to her across the dark hold.

"I'm sorry."

She lingered a moment, confusion miring her to the spot. But then her feet came unstuck and she fled up the steps and out of the hold. She hoped if she moved quickly enough, she could outpace the memory of pleading sea-green eyes.


	11. A Devilfish's Bargain, Part II

Ona rubbed her arm in a rather curious way after Franklin called her into his cabin. Before her arrival, he had been pouring over his maps, a useless venture at best. He sat back in his armchair and sighed morosely.

"We're running out of free ports where we can safely berth. Did Norrington say anything of interest?"

If his sudden about-face in subjects confused her, it didn't show. She did stop rubbing her arm, however, and looked vaguely annoyed. "Quite a lot, actually," she answered after a moment.

Franklin indicated she should sit in the seat across from his desk, and she did so, refusing to meet his eye and instead stared out of the port window.

"And?" he prompted her.

"The admiral was stationed aboard the _Flying Dutchman_ to rein in Davy Jones after he gave the Company trouble. He then helped a band of pirates escape from its brig."

"Is that so?" Franklin said, his voice lifted in curiosity.

"That's not the most interesting part."

"No?"

Ona fidgeted, a movement that immediately struck Franklin as out of character.

"Though he didn't say it in so many words, I believe that was when the admiral met his death." She paused, rubbed her arm again, and added, "He seems hell-bent on finding these pirates."

"To recapture them and rectify his mistake," Franklin said with a nod. "I can't imagine the Company being too happy with this betrayal."

"No," Ona answered with a small tilt of her head, still looking out of his window. "I believe he means to protect them. One of them was previously his betrothed."

"Aye, that'll do it," Franklin said with a heavy sigh. "Did you discover anything more about his… curious condition? That condition being somehow returning from the land of the dead," he clarified with a dash of sarcasm.

"I did," she said, her eyes still distant, distracted by her own thoughts. "Before he was aware of my presence, I watched him examine the skin across his chest. The puncture wound is no longer there." Ona paused and her brows formed together in a troubled crease. "I do not believe he was only stationed on the _Flying Dutchman_. I think he was conscripted."

Franklin felt something like dread snake its way up his spine.

"And what makes you say that?" he asked, keeping his tone as even as possible.

Ona finally turned her eyes on him, the blue-grey of her eyes more stormy than usual. "Because instead of a puncture wound under his heart, James Norrington now bears scales. Like that of a fish."

"Black Dog's balls, you _must _be joking."

She wasn't. Her expression was the portrait of grim somberness.

"We must be rid of him immediately," Franklin proclaimed, sitting up as he pushed his papers aside. He got to his feet and rounded the table, planning to make way for the door, head down to the brig, and throw the man overboard himself.

Instead, he found his path blocked. Franklin was forced to look up since Ona had the advantage of height. Her expression was strange, but not nearly as strange as the words she spoke next.

"You will do no such thing."

So, his plan _had_ worked. Ona had grown attached to the admiral. Unfortunately, that plan was looking to backfire on Franklin.

"If Jones comes looking for him, then we're all as good as dead," he pointed out, hoping to seek reason within her. "Not to mention what would happen if Jones caught wind of the secrets we carry. You are risking exposure from this, and we are both risking our necks."

When that hadn't moved her, emotionally or physically, Franklin prodded, "Do our lives not weigh more than the admiral's?"

"It will not come to that," Ona said with too much confidence given the situation. "We find the nearest port and move inland. If what I remember of the captain is true, Jones can't follow and we'll be out of his reach."

"A beached ship is a dead ship," he responded dryly.

Ona gave him a stern look.

"But we'll be alive."

She had a point there. But still, Franklin wasn't willing to concede this battle. He squinted up at her, appraising her so closely it caused her to narrow her eyes.

"Why are you willing to risk it all for one man?"

"I'm not," Ona denied. A crease formed in her brow.

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not."

Franklin sighed. Apparently, he would have to paint her a damned landscape to get her to see the scenery.

"You've been protecting that man even before you knew his existence," Franklin said. "When the fog rolled in, and the crew were practically crying for their mothers and begging me to sail to less haunted waters, you refused to guide us away. You knew the admiral was out there, didn't you? Whatever powers linger from your previous life, they allowed you to save that man. Do you even understand _why_ you did it?"

Ona studied him for a moment, giving Franklin the look had lovingly dubbed the _Cold Fish Stare_. It was similar to the empty gaze of a fish, yet filled with a cold intensity that could freeze a man solid.

Fortunately, Franklin was immune to her methods of intimidation.

"Well?" he prompted.

"Perhaps I have a fondness for lost souls at sea."

_Mermaid humor? Really, Ona?_

"Make all the jokes you like, my dear, but the end result is the same." His face hardened into a frown. "I want the admiral off my ship."

"No."

Ona glared at him, and there was a challenge in her eyes. Franklin had to acknowledge… he had a real problem. More oftentimes than not, he felt that Ona was the daughter he had never had. And like a child to a parent, she sometimes chose to not listen to him.

But unlike most children, if she truly wanted to do something, she would damn well do it and he wouldn't be able to stop her. He was under no illusion that he had any sort of control over her.

Franklin had guided her. Taught her. Influenced her to become a good kind of person. But _control _her? He might as well try to tame the sea itself.

"Franklin," she said after a moment of contentious silence, "the _Dutchman_ is a threat to all, not just to us. Whether or not we have this man aboard, there will come a day when Jones _will _be on our horizon. Especially if you keep dodging the tariffs and refuse to pay tribute to the Crown and its company fleet."

Franklin winced, again seeing she had a point. And she wasn't done making them yet, it seemed.

"You taught me when others need our help, we should give it," she said with soft earnestness. Franklin knew he was in trouble. Where the Cold Fish Stare failed, a sincere plea could cut through him like cutlass. "So, why is this any different? Because now, we might actually have something to lose and kindness might have a cost?"

She looked back and forth between his eyes, as if trying to discern what he was thinking. When he neglected to answer, Ona made her final point, and damn if it wasn't a good one.

"If we choose to only show compassion when it's convenient, then can it be called compassion at all?"

_You've no one to blame but yourself, Franklin,_ he thought with a mixture of pride and exasperation. _You've taught her well. Too damned well._

"All right, all right, _all right_," he said while raising his hands into the air, conceding the argument with less grace than he would have liked. "We won't throw the admiral overboard. But that still doesn't resolve the issue of what to_ do_ about the_ Dutchman_."

"We go inland," Ona repeated herself. "Where Jones can't follow."

Franklin sighed and went back to his desk, looking down at the maps as he leaned against the wood. He wondered when life had gotten so damned complicated.

_Most likely around the time you decided to take a wayward mermaid under your wing._

"I realize…" she began to say, drawing him out of his thoughts, "that you are taking a substantial risk. To ease the hardship, I will… take it upon myself to watch him."

Franklin found all he could do was stare at her.

"You wish to take responsibility for him?" he asked, uncertain he had understood her correctly.

Ona looked like she had swallowed bitter medicine as she answered, "I do."

Franklin couldn't help it—he laughed. A quick, sharp laugh, more disbelief than humor, but she took it as a refusal because she added:

"Please, Franklin. Have I ever asked anything of you?"

Franklin had the sudden image in his head of a young girl bringing a dirty, wet, hungry puppy to her father, cradling the poor creature in her arms as she begged him to let her keep it. It almost made him let loose another laugh, but he pressed his lips together to stifle it.

Then the humor faded as her words sunk in. How many times had they received safe passage because of Ona's navigational skills? How many times had they avoided violent storms, or dangerous sea-creatures, or calamitous meetings with pirates? She had insights no man could hope to possess, knowledge that would never be found in any great library. He singularly owed his success, his _life_, to this woman.

And what had she asked in return? Nothing. Just the freedom of being on the sea, and even then, it was a pauper's freedom compared to what she used to have before. In another life, another time, before she'd been cursed and left as a diminished shadow of the glory she'd once been.

The captain realized his decision was already made. Anything Ona wanted, on the possible chance she would ever ask, Franklin would grant it to her. Because he owed her debts that could never be repaid.

"If it's what you truly wish," Franklin said, giving her a stern look, and again the image floated to his mind of the girl and the puppy. "Norrington is in your charge. You watch over him and tend to his needs. If there's any trouble involving the admiral, it's yours to fix. And the first opportunity we come to, we dump him on land and go on our way. I'm not running from Jones, but I'm not dangling his prey in front of his nose, either. Deal?"

He extended his hand to her, but she didn't shake it. Instead, Ona spit into the palm of her right hand and held it out to him. Franklin raised his brows in surprise. He couldn't remember for the life of him when he had taught her how to do a spit handshake, but it conveyed her seriousness well enough, and was as close to a blood oath as they could get without actually cutting open their palms.

When her hand remained steady and outward, Franklin realized how truly invested she was in keeping the admiral from harm. It was what he had wanted, but to actually see it happen so quickly was a little startling.

But perhaps… perhaps it was a fortunate turn of events. Perhaps, it was what Ona needed. And mayhap, it might be what he needed, too.

Franklin spit into his palm, gripped her hand tightly, and shook it.


	12. You Can Run

_**Content warning for body horror and torture.**_

* * *

James hadn't meant to grab the woman's arm with such tight, panicked desperation. He hadn't meant to reveal so much information about himself, either. He hadn't meant to do a lot of things, and yet here he was, regretting his decisions and just feeling so… tired. Tired of always doing the wrong thing. Or doing the right thing when it was just a little too late.

He'd known many religious men to serve under him. They might have even said such words as, "this is a second chance to make things right," or the decidedly worse, "it wasn't your time to pass on; there is much greatness left for you to accomplish."

Those would have been the words of God-blinded, Bible-thumping fools. Anyone with a modicum of intelligence could see that his resurrection was meant to be a punishment, not a gift of redemption.

_Redemption…_ A promise to be left unfulfilled.

James had never been so maudlin in his life. In fact, his life had been full of satisfaction back before… before it all. Or had it been?

_Isn't that why you approached our dear Lizzie in the first place? 'Cuz you felt a hole in yer life that couldn't be filled with mindless duty and meaningless commissions?_

_Not you again,_ James silently moaned.

_This is your party,_ the voice returned with a grin that reflected with gold teeth, _I'm just a guest._

As reluctant as he was to admit it, not-Sparrow had a point. An awful, insidious, hellish point that didn't do James any good now. What did it matter if his life as commodore had been somewhat lacking in fulfillment? It had been the life he had chosen, and he had carried out his duty with more fervor and skill than anyone else could have.

_Don't let it get ye down, mate, _not-Sparrow added with a sympathetic touch._ You wouldn't be the first man to try and bury his… inadequacies in the bosom of a beautiful, buxom, bonnie lass._

"Christ, will you _please _shut up?" he snapped aloud, his voice lost in the darkness of the brig. He made a noise, more a growl than a sigh, as he got to his feet. He glanced at the food tray next to him, the meal mostly untouched as his appetite was still missing, but he had greedily gulped down the clean water. Vessels carried copious amounts of rum instead of water, as most water wasn't potable, but this ship had barrels of fresh water. It was strange. But as he felt more parched now than in his entire life, even during his brief stint as a lush in Tortuga, he couldn't really complain.

But looking at the untouched food reminded him of the woman. She had brought him dinner, and a bucket and scoop of water, and she'd unlocked his cell to deposit them on the floor. She had then locked his door and left the brig without a word. It had filled James with an uncomfortable guilt, and the feeling would only increase when he would catch a glimpse of his hands. Carefully wrapped in clean linen. He could still feel the ghost of her fingers on his skin. She hadn't exactly been gentle or tender as she'd cleaned and dressed his wounds, but she hadn't been rough or uncaring, either.

When was the last time someone had touched him? The kiss? No… not the kiss. Or even the embrace he had given Elizabeth after he had found her alive on the _Empress. _Those were gestures done_ by_ him, not_ for _him.

No, there was one moment Elizabeth had shown him true gentleness: the pigsty at Tortuga. She had helped lift his face from the muck, not seeming to mind that he had been covered with mud and other unmentionable liquids. And then she'd gripped his arms and softly asked what the world had done to him.

It was the one genuine act of kindness he could remember. The only one. Never mind he had wound up thrown into the pen_ after_ she'd hit him over the head with a half-full bottle of rum.

_Why had I so yearned to be her husband?_ James could hardly remember anymore. With the benefit of hindsight, he could see everything now that he had missed, had overlooked. She had been tolerant, polite, and the essence of grace. But she had never loved him the way she loved Turner. Had never looked at him with playful flirtation as she'd done to Sparrow. Had never cared for him deeply, at least… not until he'd been practically on death's door.

_She asked me to come with her,_ a part of him argued, refusing to believe he could have been so blind to Elizabeth's lack of affection.

_She felt pity for you, mate,_ not-Sparrow soothed. _She knew you'd lose yer head for freeing her and her gang of n'er-do-wells. She didn't want ye dead, that's all. I suspect that had more to do with her conscience than her truly craving the pleasure of yer company._

The words hurt, stung more than he wanted to acknowledge, because they contained the cruel barbs of realization. Elizabeth had asked him to escape with her because she hadn't wanted to bear the responsibility of his demise. And that was the truth in its entirety.

But… a piece of him still clung to hope. A piece that rejected the unkind, and perhaps not entirely fair, view he was beginning to have of her. That part of him was still there. But it was smaller than before.

He didn't sleep well that night. The silent navigator brought him a simple breakfast of oatmeal and dried fish, but James simply drank the water as he had before. By God, what he _really _wanted was a bottle in his hand. He hadn't fallen this far into a pit of despair since he had lost most of his crew off Tripoli. And as much as he would love to blame Jack Sparrow for_ that_ mess, he knew where the fault truly lay.

Noon meal came and went, where he forced himself to nibble on the hardtack bread. It tasted like sawdust on his tongue, without even the memory of past meals to comfort him. He could barely remember what little joy good food had brought him once, and he hoped that was merely because of his gloomy state of mind.

James was more interested in conversing with the woman than eating, anyway, but she disappeared after his food had been delivered, same as before. Despite her aversive and aloof demeanor, she was making an effort to feed him while the crew remained conspicuously absent. That fact was not lost on him, and he was grateful in thoughts, if not in words. He had a feeling any words he had for her would be unwelcome due to his earlier impropriety, so he kept them to himself.

There was another problem James was actively avoiding. He supposed the fact he had gone two days without food and didn't suffer from it should have been a strong indicator that something in his body was amiss, but apparently it had taken the growth of scales for him to truly understand he was not the same as he was before. What that meant, he didn't know, and he pushed it down in his mind whenever it would bubble to the surface. Better not to think on it when there was nothing to be done.

James commended himself for being so stoic and sensible in the face of the strange and impossible. But deep down, he knew it was only a matter of time before something had to give and he lost his mind to the madness that was no doubt building within him.

But that could come later. Right now, he had company.

The dinner meal was not brought by the navigator, but rather by the captain, and James found he was oddly disappointed. Quite a foolish emotion, considering another conversation with the man was exactly what he had been hoping for.

"So, here's how it's going to go," Captain Sharp spoke as he sat down on his crate after delivering the food to James' cell. "You'll be released at the closest port. Closest port happens to be Tortuga."

James shivered, and Sharp took it as an aversion to something else.

"I know a man of your station tends to steer clear of such places, and your uniform will certainly draw attention, but it's the best I can offer."

"There may not be time for that," James responded in a low tone. Franklin raised an eyebrow.

"Pray tell, friend," he said with false cheer. "Why should we be in such a rush, besides the fact you present a danger in the form of the _Flying Dutchman_ come to retrieve the Company's lost admiral?"

James sighed through his nose, knowing the captain would find him a fool for his reasons, but they were still important to him.

"My… companions are in danger."

"Your companions?" Sharp asked with a slight smirk. "Which companions would those be? The pirates? I'm sorry to say, Admiral, but their welfare does not concern me."

_No? Then perhaps this will concern you, you old sea dog._

"Lord Beckett and his fleet, which includes the _Flying Dutchman_, are bearing down on Shipwreck Cove as we speak."

Sharp leaned forward, sudden interest in his clever eyes. "They're going after the Brethren Court?"

James gave a slow nod.

"Beckett intends to wipe out the remaining strength of the pirates. They can withstand a siege, but not indefinitely. And they will be convening, all nine Pirate Lords, when he intends to strike."

Sharp rubbed his chin while giving James a look that told him he saw exactly how that could be a problem, even for honest sailors and merchants.

"Choosing between pirates and the East India Trading Company leaves a sour taste in my mouth."

James surprised himself with a faint chuckle.

"I made my career on routing out and putting pirates to the noose, so you understand the severity of the situation when I prefer _them _to what the Company has to offer."

James paused and ran a hand down his face, feeling suddenly tired again. "Beckett's ambition will not stop at ridding the world of piracy. He intends to rule the seas, and I mean that quite literally. In name, he would do so on behalf of Crown and Company, but he would be the one to hold true power over these waters and all who sail them."

"And that would be poor business for us all," Sharp lamented as he sat up straight on his crate.

"You understand my urgency?" James asked him, hope creeping into his voice. "Time is a luxury we cannot afford."

"Aye, but rashness may be just as costly," the older man said, a crease forming between his brows. "I'm all for defending the sovereignty of the sea, but I have more to lose than my life in this wager. Much more."

A clear image was called to James' mind: the captain leaning down and brushing a gentle hand across the unconscious navigator's temple.

"So, no, Admiral," Sharp said with a shake of his head. "I'll be dropping you at Tortuga, the same as before. What you do after that is between you and your conscience. Though you seem a good sort, and I hope you choose to do the sensible thing and return to England the soonest chance you find."

James ignored these words, no doubt pearls of wisdom, and peered closer at the man, the better to gauge his reaction.

"Who is she, really? That woman?"

The captain's expression darkened and James immediately knew he had crossed into dangerous waters. The older man got to his feet and turned away, and James thought he was going to leave without giving any answer at all. But then he paused, regarded James over one shoulder, and said:

"She's the closest thing you have to a friend on this ship, James Norrington. So keep that in mind the next time you put her in harm's way."

James could only stare at his retreating back.

* * *

James spent the next few hours pondering the captain's words, seeing as sleep would not visit him this night.

He had come to the conclusion that he knew two things. The captain spoke of the navigator like she was his daughter. She looked about the right age too, but if that was the case, why hadn't Sharp just said so? Was she a bastard? An illegitimate child conceived with a woman who wasn't his wife?

The second thing he knew to be true was this: James didn't want a friend. Every person he had once considered a confidante had suffered by his selfish actions. The marines on his ship. Elizabeth. Governor Swann.

That last name hurt him especially close to the heart. Maybe because he felt partially responsible. Beckett had ordered his murder and James hadn't had the slightest idea. Governor Swann had always been his steadfast friend. Almost a father to him. The Governor had seen only the best parts of James, enough to think he was worthy of asking his daughter's hand in marriage.

_And look where it got you, Weatherby… An unjust end and a watery grave._

James closed his eyes, as if that could shut out the bitter thoughts running through his head. He desperately wanted company in that moment, but whose, he didn't know. Anyone would do. Anything to keep the restless ghosts at bay as they rattled their chains in their coffins.

He didn't realize he had dozed off until he heard whispers and the sound of a key being inserted into a lock. For a brief moment, he thought it was Ona, and found that to be a surprisingly pleasant notion. Despite her cold manners, her presence had become… familiar to him.

Yes, he hoped it was her, even if it was only to silently deliver a meal. But James opened his eyes and saw it wasn't her. It wasn't the captain either. Four crewmen stood in front of the open door, staring at him the way a pack of wild dogs might eye a meal.

He was tired, so tired, too tired to put up a fight. James didn't resist as they grabbed his arms and pulled him from the cell.

_So, this is what it's come to, then, _he thought as the tip of his boots dragged along the tarred wood as they pulled him through the bowels of the creaking ship. Past the galley, through stowage, and now to the stairs…

Then, a thought struck him, stirring him from his lethargy. James was fairly sure Captain Sharp wouldn't allow this kind of thing to happen—which meant he might be in the midst of a mutiny. If so, where was the captain? And where was his navigator?

A cold drip of fear slid down his spine as he wondered what would become of the woman who had bandaged his wounds and saved his life.

_If you won't raise a hand to help yourself,_ he thought to himself with a full dose of self-loathing at his own fatalism, _then at least do something to help them._

As the crewman dragged him onto the deck, James lifted his head to take stock of his surroundings. It was night, well-lit with the moon overhead, as well as the torches being held around him. The torches were little more than pieces of wood dipped in tar and lit aflame. He noted with dread that there were swords accompanying those makeshift fires.

_It appears they've relieved the armory of all its iron and steel,_ he thought humorlessly.

James remained silent, even as they tied his hands behind his back and shoved him against the base of the mainmast. The men jeered and laughed at him, but in a frenzied way that betrayed their desire to see his blood spilled across the deck.

That aggression turned into gasps of fear when one of the crew stepped forward and ripped open James' waistcoat and linen shirt. Their faces were white with shock, open with astonishment, and more than one pulled out rosary beads to clutch to their lips. Morbidly curious at what they saw, James looked down. And wished he hadn't.

The scales had spread significantly, down to his stomach and up so far he couldn't see where they ended. Fear gripped his throat, and he didn't know which frightened him more—what the crew would do to him, or what his own body had begun to wrought against him.

"What manner of creature is he?" hissed a crewman.

_"__He's a witch!"_ one man called.

_"__He's a devil!"_ shouted another.

The huge bull-man, Beecher if James could recall correctly, scowled at him and said, "He's a monster, brought up from the depths of Davy Jones' Locker."

The startled laughter left his throat before he could stop it. "You're not far off," he said with a bitter smile. It was exactly the wrong thing to say.

The crewman began to gather closer to him, their eyes hard and their mouths set into grimaces, and James soon came to learn he should have been far more fearful of the makeshift torches than of their swords. They held the flickering flames up to his scales, perhaps seeing if he was insensate to pain.

He wasn't.

Somehow, James managed not to scream, clenching his jaw tight as his eyes watered and tears fell down his cheeks. He could hear sporadic bits of sentences, the men saying how they would _burn the disease away_. _Rid him of his evilness. _He would have laughed if he wasn't focusing so hard on just _not… screaming…_

A familiar scent began to permeate the air. _Cooked fish, _James realized with a sickening jolt. He did laugh then, and found he couldn't stop. Hysterical, unhinged laughter, but at least it made the flames go away. It still hurt though, still burned, as if the fire was still touching his skin, and he wondered if he would go up in flames and take the _Mariner's Lament_ along with him.

He could hear Beecher's voice say something about _filleting instead of braising,_ and James didn't have time to ponder that curious statement. His world was suddenly full of bright pain, misery like nothing he had ever felt. It was an agony no man had ever experienced, because as a rule, men did not have scales.

Beecher had begun to pluck them off, one by one, with a cruel-looking dirk that was now edged in red. It was a singular misery that made him crave death in any form it would take.

James screamed. Or at least, he thought he was screaming. It was difficult to tell, now that the world had purified into a magnificent fire of agony. There was no more James Norrington. There was just unending slicing, tearing, searing pain.

The crack of a pistol shot split the world.

James became aware of himself again. He opened his eyes and saw the crew had backed away as they stared up at the quarterdeck to where Captain Sharp stood, his pistol aimed skyward.

Ona was next to him, a musket in her hands, its muzzle down at the crowded men as her eyes blazed with cold fury. Sharp tucked the spent pistol into his belt and pulled a second from his other hip, aiming it toward the men with deadly intent.

_So that's where the good captain is,_ James thought numbly. He looked down, then immediately looked away. His chest was a nasty sight to behold where they had pried away the scales, leaving raw, bleeding flesh beneath. He thought it quite possible he would never dine on fish again, if he lived long enough to have another meal.

_"__What on God's green earth gave you the right to remove the prisoner from the brig!" _the captain bellowed like an angry sea giant.

The men did not cower before his wrath. They were growing mutinous by the second, their eyes wrathful, lips stretched across their teeth as they pointed at James, shouting and accusing him of unnatural crimes.

"So, you decided to take matters into your own hands expressly against your captain's orders? Is that it?"

Sharp descended the stairs to the main deck, pistol in his hand as he looked like he had half a mind to murder his entire crew. They backed away as the captain and navigator drew closer. James watched as Sharp gave a nod to the woman, and she handed over the musket and approached where he had been left, tied and bloodied. She began to untie his knotted hands, and James didn't know whether to feel grateful or terrified.

_Get back!_ James wanted to yell. _Run before they tear you both to pieces!_

But he didn't yell. He barely had the strength to stand, and Ona had to help pull him to his feet. He breathed in harsh, shallow gasps as the skin over his torso stretched painfully against the raw wounds. The woman slipped under his arm so he could brace his weight against her shoulder, and she led him around the group until the two of them were standing behind the captain, out of reach of their villainous hands.

Sharp handed her the loaded pistol, and then gripped the long gun in both of his hands. Mutinous comments rippled through the throng of men as they began to surge forward.

"Any man takes another step forward and I will blow his useless brains across this deck," Captain Sharp warned as he swept the musket across the men facing him. "And the unlucky bastard standing next to him can scrape off what's left."

That stopped the angry mob, but James knew it wouldn't last for long. He was one man with a musket, and they were dozens of armed, mutinous sailors with their blood up.

Perhaps Sharp understood this, because he said in a more reasonable voice, "Have I ever steered you wrong before? Have any of you suffered from the hands of ill-fate while you've been aboard my ship?"

That seemed to mollify them as they looked around at one another. Some expressions of contrition and shame were even present, which James found somewhat hopeful. Not enough to halt a mutiny, but maybe enough to cool some heads and allow sense and reason to return.

While Sharp worked on talking down the men, Ona seemed to have a different plan.

_"__Come,"_ she whispered into his ear. _"We must make way to the captain's quarters."_

_While they're distracted,_ he could almost hear her add. James gave a weak nod—it wasn't as if he could go anywhere else without the aid of her strength—and she began to steer him toward the doorway that would lead to the aft of the ship.

They didn't get very far. Ona came to an abrupt halt, the sudden change causing James to look around for signs of impending danger. He saw none, but he felt her shoulders tense under his arm, and when he looked to her face he saw her eyes were wide and her countenance was pale.

At that moment, the sails overhead snapped and strained against their ropes, pulled aloft by the sudden and abrupt change in wind.

The crewman looked around in confusion, and then they were plunged into darkness as the torches and lamps doused on their own. The temperature dropped so swiftly it felt like a flush of cold fever across his skin, but it was not the reason James began to tremble.

_No,_ he thought, fear tightening his throat.

"_They found me_," he whispered aloud.

Ona turned her head to stare at him. She opened her mouth to speak, but was never given the chance.


	13. But You Can't Hide

The world exploded, or at least that's what it felt like to James. More accurately, the water to port side exploded, rising thirty feet in the air as if an angry sea creature had emerged from below.

In fact, that's precisely what happened. Tarnished wood breached the column of water like a hellish whale, a jagged-tooth bow followed by mossy sails and a barnacled hull.

The _Flying Dutchman_ crashed onto the surface of the water, sending a wave across the deck of the _Mariner's Lament._ Seeing the impending rush of water, James tried to wrap his arms around the woman beside him, hoping to anchor her against the onslaught, but she seemed to have a better idea.

Ona unceremoniously shoved James under the stairs that led to the quarterdeck, jumping in after him just as the rushing water hit. They were both slammed against the bulkhead, a hard jolt going up his arm from where he knocked it against the wood. He spluttered seawater out of his mouth and wiped it out of his eyes, expecting it to sting. But it didn't.

Having no time to think about why that was, James took quick stock of their situation, giving a quick once-over to the woman beside him. They were soaked, bedraggled and battered, but alive.

Not all of the crew had made it. Many had been washed overboard from the wave, and the ones left were still trying to recover their wits, coughing and gagging while on their hands and knees.

Captain Sharp didn't need to recover, nor did he need see what colors the attacking ship was flying. While his men were still finding their feet, he had already begun to shout orders.

_"__All hands! To your stations!"_ he roared. _"Use those swords you plundered from my armory and defend this ship! Prove you're not a band of mutinous, traitorous mongrels, and send that cursed ship back to Hell from whence it came!"_

Sharp paused and scanned the deck until he caught sight of Ona and James. The captain gave a slight nod to his navigator, his expression one of grim acceptance.

Before James could ponder that foreboding look, Ona was through the doorway and into the ship, half-pulling and half-dragging him along, one arm hooked firmly around his back while the other held the pistol before her. It seemed she was sticking to the original plan of going to the cabin's quarters, and James didn't have the heart to tell her there was no hope. It didn't matter where they ran or how well they hid. Jones never let his quarry escape. The ship was doomed, along with every soul she carried.

_I did this_, he thought with overwhelming despair. _I brought death upon these people for no other reason than they had the ill-luck to bring me aboard._

James somehow managed to keep his feet after Ona released him once they reached Sharp's cabin. She slammed the door and locked it tight behind them, and then she dashed to a tall, iron safe against one wall of the cabin. She put the pistol into her dress pocket and pulled out a key in its stead, inserted it into the lock, and opened the safe's heavy door. Out came two hefty English dueling pistols.

"I assume you're proficient with these?" she asked as she examined one, turning it this way and that in her hand. James couldn't stop the bitter smile that crossed his lips as he approached her.

"More than."

"Good," she responded curtly.

She handed both of the pistols to him. He reached out to take them, hesitated, and said, "You might be the better shot, considering my current state."

"Probably."

James felt his eyebrows rise at her blunt response, but she still held out the flintlocks to him, so he took them without further argument. He had to admit, even though he knew they would only hinder Jones' men, not stop them, it still felt good to hold them in his grasp.

Two steel cutlasses were removed next, and after handing one to James, she closed and locked the safe. When she retrieved her pistol from the dress pocket, he got a closer view of it, noting its heavy weight and flared muzzle.

"A dragon," James said, impressed as he eyed the blunderbuss pistol. He hadn't seen one since being stationed in London. Such weapons were used by the Royal Horse Guards and the Royal Regiment of Dragoons. Meant for combat on horseback, it made the flintlocks in his hand look like children's toys by comparison.

"It is," she answered in that curt manner of hers. "And yes, I know how to wield it."

"I have no doubt of that," James said. Ona peered at him closely, as if searching for signs of mockery. But there was none, for he had meant it.

With one last scrutinizing glare of his person, Ona turned away from him and began to prep her weapons for battle. He turned away and did the same, if only for a distraction so he wouldn't find himself staring at her. He suspected the captain kept his pistols in good order, and he found with no surprise that they were in exemplary shape.

James tucked the sword into the baldric still slung across his waist, deciding to spend the pistols first. Feeling the weight of steel on his hip called to mind his beautiful sword that he had lost, and for a moment, he froze as he recalled what had become of it.

In his last moments, he had plunged his sword into Davy Jones' chest. Bold, rash, and quite unlike him, his final act had been one of bravery. Or perhaps, extreme foolishness.

James didn't get a chance to reflect further on the matter; they both went still as an ominous noise vibrated the boards above their heads. Uneven and sharp. The lamps in the captain's quarters extinguished all at once, plunging them into darkness aside from the moonlight shining in from the windows.

He recognized the odd noise as footsteps, belonging to one man. It had been one of the last things he'd heard as he succumbed to the black nothingness of oblivion.

"How many men are stationed aboard the _Dutchman_?" Ona asked, her head craned toward the ceiling as she moved closer to him. James studied her face, wondering if she'd been in combat before. She didn't seem especially afraid. He wondered if there was anything in this world that _did_ frighten her.

"Dozens, not including the Company marines," he responded, finding his voice tight with dread. "I do not know if they'll be involved, or if they still live, but Jones' men cannot be killed by natural means as far as I can surmise."

"Then let's not waste our shots," she said evenly. "Aim for points of weakness. Knees, elbows, shoulders, even their eyes."

Her utter lack of fear was oddly comforting despite the fact he knew these were their last moments. Out of habit and ingrained training, James pressed his back against hers, gripping the two pistols and aiming them skyward as he waited for the enemy to appear. He felt the tension in Ona's shoulders, betraying her nonplussed attitude, and they waited in taut silence as the wind outside howled like they were in the pits of Hell itself.

After a moment, another sound pierced the air. Rising and twisting in torment and terror. It was not made by any breeze—these were the terrified cries of men faced with the impossible.

The sharp report of gunfire followed, and James knew the captain made the first move. Shame filled his gut for allowing himself to be hidden away, even though he knew nowhere on the ship was safe.

"I should be out there, helping your captain," he stated grimly. James had just about made up his mind to go when Ona warned:

"Stay where you are, Admiral."

"They're here for me," James responded, unable to hide the anguish from his words.

"We know," she said simply, her voice absent of any blame or resentment.

"You… were expecting this?" he asked, slightly turning his head to watch her over his shoulder.

"Yes." And now there was a hint of unhappiness in her voice as she added, "But we thought we'd have more time."

Something hard slammed into the side of the ship, causing James to fall back onto the navigator, and they both crashed to the floor. There was profound pain as he landed on his raw, bloodied chest, and he gasped for air, unable to move as he tried to push back the agony enough to recover.

_"__Ona?"_ he choked out, pressing a hand to his chest. When there was no answering response, he looked up and saw her scrambling across the floor. Her blunderbuss had been knocked from her hand to lay a few feet away, but as soon as her pale fingers closed around it, a thick, barnacled boot stomped on the barrel of the pistol.

The woman craned her head upwards as the cursed crewman leaned down toward her, his urchin-spiked face breaking into a smile as he crooned, _"'ello, lambkin."_

James grabbed his twin pistols and had just managed to stagger to his feet when a pain-filled scream rent the air. His heart hammered in his ribcage as he looked up, expecting to find Ona injured or worse, only to find confusion at the sight before him.

The monstrous sailor was hopping on one foot while the other flopped on the floor like a fish. Ona was crouched on one knee, her cutlass in hand as the edge dripped with black, viscous blood. She retrieved her blunderbuss from where it lay on the deck, and then cautiously backed away from the howling, cursing villain, and stood at James' side.

He hadn't moved during the entire scene, too stunned to react as he stared down at her.

"What?" she snapped, her brows furrowed in annoyance as she glared back at him.

Before James could respond, another crewman stepped forward out of the shadows. And then another, and another, quite literally pouring out of the woodwork as they began to surround them, penning them in like a pack of sharks around two wayward fish.

He and Ona pulled back-to-back, and James raised both of his pistols and aimed them at the two nearest seamen.

"Surrender, Admiral, and ye'll be unharmed," one of them spoke with a smirk. Jimmy Legs. The bosun of the _Dutchman_, his body and face covered with disturbing protrusions of fleshy corals. "Cap'n just wants a word."

"And I should like several with him, but we don't always get what we want, do we?" James answered. The monstrous crewman scowled, clearly unhappy with the flippant answer he was given.

"Cap'n gets what Cap'n wants! _Take 'em!"_

James fired his twin pistols simultaneously, and the crewman to the right and left of Jimmy Legs staggered backwards, screaming as they gripped their shredded faces. Ona's pistol went off immediately after, the report so loud in the small space that it left James with ringing ears.

But when they both pulled their swords at the same time, he could hear the twin steel blades singing in the dark as they slid from their scabbards.

Despite the pain and the horror and the knowledge of certain death, James felt an undercurrent of electricity through his limbs. It was a feeling he hadn't had since… well, since his duel with Turner and Sparrow on Isla Cruces. Every moment since then, every action he'd performed had felt constrained, uncertain, and profoundly empty. He had questioned every step he took and found his motivations hollow.

Now, with his sword flashing through the air as he ripped and slashed and tore through molted, briny flesh, he felt thrillingly, undeniably alive. He wasn't fighting to regain lost honor or to prove his loyalty to England. He was fighting for his right to survive, and to protect the two souls aboard who had shown him a modicum of human decency.

Ona's handling of a sword must have been skillful, because she held off her side just as well as James held his. But what they had in superior skills couldn't make up for the_ Dutchman_ crew's superior numbers. It was only a matter of time before they were overwhelmed, and the swords were ripped from their hands as they were forcibly disarmed.

There was a yell, one of anger more than pain, and James knew the navigator had been seized. His heart hammering in his chest, James turned and prepared to fight off her attackers, with bare knuckles if necessary, but then something hard and chitinous hit the side of his head.

James dropped to his knees. His eyelids were suddenly heavy and his vision difficult to focus, but he managed to lift his gaze to see Ona being bodily dragged away from him. When their eyes met, she struggled harder to fight off her captors, but no mere mortal could hope to resist the crew of the _Flying Dutchman._

In the end, they always won. Because to fight them, was to fight Death itself.

Her face blurred and vanished, and James collapsed onto his side. He couldn't move, unable to defend himself as the men grabbed his arms and dragged him across the floorboards, their cruel laughter ringing in his ears as a hellish musical score of metal striking metal played in the background.


	14. The End of All Things

By the time the battle was over, night was retreating and dawn had begun to make its approach. And what a bloodied dawn it was.

Ona sucked in a sharp breath as she was forced down onto her knees, her shins hitting the deck and sending a jolt of pain up her legs. But she didn't make any other noise of complaint, glaring through the strands of her loose hair at the twisted, mutilated crewman as they walked past her.

Norrington was thrown onto the deck to her left, his back hitting the gunwale hard enough to shake it. He groaned low in his throat and rubbed the side of his head. She examined him visually, satisfied when she ascertained he wasn't injured too profoundly. He was a decent fighter as she had just witnessed, and if they were to get out of this alive, she would need his skills.

She next surveyed the rest of the grisly scene. Bodies littered the deck, all of them belonging to the _Mariner's Lament_, and the wood was slick with crimson. To her right, the survivors had been forced into a line, sitting or kneeling against the gunwale, their faces slack with shock or bloody with injury.

Someone caught her eye, and she released a breath of relief. Franklin, too, seemed gladdened to see her alive, though his eyes were narrowed, as if it was difficult to focus on her. She noticed then that a trail of blood was leading from his left ear, and her heart pained in her chest.

_Thump-clack. Thump-clack. Thump-clack._

The odd, rhythmic sound drew Ona's attention upward, and she stared at a man, if indeed he could be called that, as he sauntered past her. He wore a heavy dark coat, a large black tricorne, and a leg she, at first, thought was a peg-leg. On closer inspection, she realized it was a pointed claw. Like at the end of a crab's leg.

But by far, the most startling thing about him was his face. Smooth, nose-less, and ringed with writhing, grasping kraken-like tentacles. There was no doubting this was the infamous Captain Davy Jones.

The cursed captain paced slowly in front of the line of prostrate crew, his arms behind his back as he appraised them with cold eyes the color of icy waters. She noted then, too, that one of his arms ended in an enormous crab's claw.

He was the boundless, raging ocean personified. As he began to speak, a collective shudder moved through the crew.

"For those of ye who don't know me, ye may have taken heed of the unfair rumors that I am a cruel master. Without rhyme or reason, I am as faithless and unpredictable as the sea. But this is untrue."

He paused with a mocking, thoughtful expression, his eyes twinkling with sinister delight. "I am a fair captain, a _merciful _captain… even to those who have in their possession something that belongs to me."

Without warning or any signal Ona could see, two of the _Dutchman_ crew grabbed Norrington and dragged him to his feet. He snarled the words,_ "Unhand me!" _but they ignored him and held him upright, as if presenting him for inspection.

Jones stalked across the deck, his boot mere inches from Ona's knees as he came to a halt. She tilted her head upwards, trying not to draw attention to herself, and watched as the captain confronted the man who had once been his commanding officer.

"Greetings, Admiral," Jones said with a tone of spurious joy. "I've missed ye terribly."

"The feeling is decidedly _not _mutual," Norrington answered, his jaw clenched as he glared at the captain. Jones didn't seem to take offense at his hostile words, and instead released a booming laugh.

"I've missed that razor-sharp wit of yours, too. You may not believe me, but I am truly glad to see ye alive. Although…" he paused, rubbing a tentacle finger across his tentacle jaw, "I've yet to reach an understanding as to how ye survived that unfortunate goring."

Norrington scoffed through his noise and said, "I assumed that was your doing, _Captain."_

Jones gave him a look at the derisive use of his title, but ignored the jab as he mused, "I did not rise ye from the dead, lad. But it seems, now that yer back…"

Quick as an eel, Jones tore open Norrington's coat, exposing the patchwork of bloodied and scaly flesh. The cursed captain gave a smile that chilled Ona to her marrow.

"Well, that does it! The _Flying Dutchman_ has laid claim to you, body and soul, and conscripted you into her service."

"To which I did _not_ agree," Norrington snapped as he moved forward, but the crewman holding his shoulders pulled him back into place. "Or was my sword through your black heart not answer enough for you?"

Despite Norrington's low, deadly tone, Jones merely smiled as if remembering a fond memory.

"Oh, aye, I understood ye well enough. The_ Dutchman_, however, can sometimes… have a mind of her own. And ye remember our little conversation, don't ye, Admiral?" Jones chuckled again and said, "My apologies. _Former_ admiral."

The cursed crewman chuckled but Norrington's face only hardened.

"I remember how I should have allowed Governor Swann to stab your heart with the bayonet," he spit back. "It would have spared me a lot of trouble."

Jones didn't laugh this time, but he did move his face closer to Norrington's, causing the man to pull back in disgust as his tentacles drew dangerously near.

"Then ye also remember what I told the late Gov'ner. The crew are not bound to _me_, Master Norrington. They answer to the ship. And now… so do you."

Norrington's face twisted into a mask of rage as he shouted, "You cannot keep me!"

The cursed captain had turned and begun to walk away, a lingering smile on his face, but Norrington's angered cry caused him to pause and look over his shoulder.

"If ye don't like it," his smile broadened into a full grin, "then ye can take it up with the ship. I'm sure she'll be sympathetic to yer_ plight!"_

Jones' cruel laughter was echoed by the rest of his sea-cursed crew, the sound of their mirth carried into the morning light. The water had begun to turn pink, a reflection of the dawning sky, but to Ona it seemed as if the ocean had been saturated by the blood of the slain.

Norrington was forced back into a kneeling position by his captors and he shook off their hands, rearranging his thick coat to once again cover the evidence of his affliction.

Ona couldn't draw her eyes away from him, feeling oddly saddened on behalf of the man, for her worries had been confirmed.

His fate was sealed. Norrington belonged to the_ Dutchman_ now.

As if he could feel his gaze, Norrington turned his sea-green eyes on her. They full of hot anger for a moment, but then something in his expression seemed to crumple and he turned away, but not before Ona had caught a glimpse of his shame.

Jones called out in his commanding voice: "Who amongst ye calls himself captain!"

Ona immediately looked to Franklin, her heart suddenly leaping in her chest as for the first time that night, a trickle of fear iced down her spine. She was just about to call out the lie, say she was captain, when Franklin answered, "Aye, that would be me."

He tried to rise to his feet, but the nearby captors forced him back down to his knees. He gave them all a sneer, riddled with contempt, and then turned his focus back to Jones. His voice was loud and clear as he said:

"My name is Captain Franklin Sharp, and you and your ilk are not welcome aboard my vessel."

Jones moved at a slow, methodical pace to where Franklin knelt, and once he towered over him, Jones smiled down with an amused expression. It was as if Franklin were no more than a small, yapping dog to the cursed man.

"Do not worry, Captain. My men and I will not tarry long. There is but one simple question I would put to ye and yer crew."

Jones leaned down until they were nearly face to face. His question was quiet, but they all heard it, drifting across the morning breeze as if even the wind not dared drown him out.

"Do you fear death, Captain Sharp?"

If the cursed captain was hoping to intimidate Franklin, he failed on that account. He squared his jaw and looked the monstrous creature in the face without an inkling of fear.

"The man who fears death is the man who has lived his life unfulfilled, going to sleep each night and waking each morning with regret in his heart."

Jones stared at him for a long moment.

"It's a yes or no question," he said flatly.

Franklin bared his teeth at him in a red smile, and he leaned forward.

"I do not fear _you._"

There was no doubting his conviction; Jones could clearly see it, too. He slowly rose to his tall height and unsheathed his sword, pointing it downward towards Franklin, the tip aimed directly over his heart.

"Then you will meet your judgement braver than most," he said quietly, the previous mirth in his voice now completely gone. He pulled his arm, preparing for the killing strike that would end Franklin's life and take him away from her forever.

Ona was on her feet and bolting toward the tentacled monstrosity before she consciously realized what she was doing. But she never got anywhere near him; she was grabbed and held roughly by the arms still a few paces away. She struggled against her captors, her anger sharpened by their hideous laughter.

For the first time, Davy Jones turned his eyes on her. The pale irises took her in, peering at her in that particular way she hated. Jones formed a small smile on his face, but he did not sheath his sword as he languidly strolled up to her. She noticed his sword hand could hardly be called a hand, and one long tentacle-finger wrapped around the hilt and partially up the blade.

But after that initial glance, Ona paid no attention to the sword. Instead, she glared fully into his face, loathing burning in her heart as she imagined all the ways she would delight in killing such a fiend. For Ona knew who this man was. What he had done.

And now he was here. Fate had a cruel sense of humor.

"How could I overlook the presence of such a sweet sea-flower?" he practically purred as he walked around her in a slow circle. "My distracted thoughts are no excuse for such uncordial behavior. You have my… apologies."

He stopped before her, his face drawing closer as his pale eyes loomed in her vision. His scent filled her nostrils, and he smelled like the charged waters of the sea after a storm.

"If you touch him, if you harm him at all," Ona said, the promise of Hell's fury behind her words, "I _will _kill you."

Jones' hairless brow rose in an expression of amusement and he pulled back a short distance, turning his icy gaze on the rest of the surviving crew.

"This young lass has more loyalty in her little finger than the lot of you do in your miserable bodies," he stated in a loud, acidic voice. "Unlike ye mutinous dogs, she has a genuine love for her captain. That's the kind of crewmember I want aboard my vessel. Perhaps I will not spare any of ye, seein' as how ye were ready to murder yer last captain not moments ago. So, tell me," he leaned in front of Beecher, his eyes alight with malicious, "why should I spare any of yer traitorous souls from that dread judgement day?"

Beecher trembled before the man's gaze, unable to meet his eye. But he was able to speak, despite his voice being full of terror.

"Y…ye don't want her, sir."

Jones leaned closer, causing Beecher to shudder violently.

"And why, pray tell, would ye say such a thing?" he asked in a deceivingly friendly voice. Beecher chanced a look up at him, but then dropped his gaze to the deck once more as he muttered:

"She's the captain's daughter."

Beecher gulped as Jones speared him with his glare.

"And sh-she's a w-witch. O-or some kind of w-woman bearing unnatural talents," he stuttered, fumbling over his words from his fear of her.

Ona felt nothing but cold distain as she glared at Beecher, half-hoping Jones would end his life at the point of his sword. She would not mourn his death after he had led a mutiny against Franklin.

But Jones didn't kill the wretched mutineer. Instead, he rose to his feet, his tone almost-bored as he said, "Small-minded men such as yerselves believe havin' a woman aboard is the comin' of the Apocalypse. So ye'll have to excuse me for not taking ye at yer word."

Beecher bowed his head in submission, but another mutineer spoke up, this one by the name of Johnson.

"She can predict terrible storms!" he yelled shrilly while casting a furtive glance in her direction.

"So can _birds,"_ Jones snapped as he whirled on the man. "Do ye cower at the sight of every_ seagull_ overhead?"

It was clear Johnson was too terrified to answer, so Beecher spoke up in his stead.

"Sh-she's never wrong. It's why the cap'n made her ship's navigator, despite her bein' a woman." Beecher swallowed hard under Jones' icy gaze and added, "We never run afoul of shoals, bad weather, or even enemy ships. It-it's uncanny, that is."

Jones scoffed and said, "Nothin' any navigator worth their salt can't accomplish. Seein' the state of this sorry crew, I can see why ye'd confuse _competence_ with _magic_." He laughed that odd, halting laugh of his, mocking and cruel, and his men cackled along with him.

Until another voice spoke up.

"I saw her bring back a man from the dead."

Davy Jones and his crew went silent as they all turned to stare at the man who had spoken. Horace. One of the sailors who had been there when she had tried to revive Norrington. And one of the sailors who had witnessed his miraculous return to life.

Ona felt a rare surge of dread move through her stomach.

Jones sauntered over and stopped in front of Horace, leaned down, and ordered in a low voice, "Go on."

Horace looked around with wide, terrified eyes, and they rested on her for a moment. His expression turned guilty, almost apologetic, and then he looked down at the deck.

"She jumped into the water, havin' spotted the admiral before any of us. He was dead, cold and pale as a corpse in a grave, he was. Then she kissed him, and there were a brilliant green flash, and he was alive same as you an' me. I swear on me mum's grave, God rest her soul."

Jones snapped his head around to stare at Ona, giving her a look so intense she felt it could flay flesh from bone. He prowled back to her, moving the same way she had seen jungle cats stalk their next meal. He came to a stop mere inches away, eyes boring into hers as if he could forcibly pull the knowledge he sought directly from her soul.

"These are very serious accusations. What say you to the claims of yer crewmates?" He tilted his head slightly, attentive and watchful. It reminded her of the way hawks sometimes cocked their heads when they've spotted a potential meal.

But if she was to be his meal, Ona would be sure he choked on her bones.

"Which part?" she responded in a tone that was a careful mixture of boredom and dismissal. "The fact that I'm a half-decent navigator? Or the part where the dawn light shone through the fog and it appeared to burn green, causing the crew to believe fanciful tales of resurrection?" She let a sneer form on her lips as she concluded, "As you said, they're small-minded men."

Faster than she could blink, cold metal was pressed against the underside of her chin. Jones glared at her with all the malice of a gathering storm.

"Willful as yer father, too," he spit with quiet fury. "I've no use for either of ye. Hear me, ye cowards," he called out mockingly. "See that she be naught but a woman, and women die just as hard as men."

Ona could see it in his eyes as he turned back to face her—the pleasure he would take from seeing her blood spilled across the deck. But it was more than simply a dark wish to see death that played out in his cold eyes. Jones didn't just want her life. He wanted to see her tremble and break and beg him for clemency. Jones wanted her terror.

She would give him none.

Ona looked past Jones to meet Franklin's eyes. He was struggling against the hands on his shoulders, trying to rise to his feet, but he was too weak from his injuries and slumped back down to his knees. Sorrow twisted his features, and she tried to give him a sign. Convey her thoughts to him of how grateful she was for everything he had done for her. He had given her purpose and refuge. A place to call home.

She would never forget that.

Water filled his eyes as he returned her gaze. She had seen men cry, but Franklin was the only one who ever cried for her. It was further proof he was the only decent mortal she had met in her long life.

Ona gave him a silent goodbye before closing her eyes. She hoped he understood this wasn't his fault. She hoped he would understand she wasn't afraid to die. There were worse things than death, after all.

The cold edge of steel laid across her throat as Jones prepared to slice it open, but still, she did not flinch or cry out or show signs of fear. She had none. Not for this wretched cur. Her only regret was that her life wound end at the hands of one who was not worthy of taking it.

As she took her last breath, filling her lungs with the briny air she would never taste again, a sharp cry ripped through the silence, the single word anguished and desperate.

_"__Don't!"_

Ona opened her eyes, startled. Franklin also appeared stunned, for it was not he who had shouted. The confusion on Jones' face was a reflection of Ona's own bewilderment. The cursed captain spun her around but stayed behind her, his claw grasping her arm in a vice while he held the sword to her throat with the other.

"Somethin' ye wish to say, Master Norrington?"

Ona's confusion only grew when she saw the state of him. Norrington's dark brows knit with concern, his teeth bared in a grimace as it took three crewmen to hold him in place.

"Let. Her. Go."

His words bore the authority he had once held as naval commander. It was powerfully persuasive, that voice, and the intensity of his eyes held her enthralled.

Instead of laughing in his face and slitting her throat, Jones actually seemed to consider the statement.

"What is her life worth to you, Admiral?"

Ona found she was curious for the answer herself. Norrington shifted his sight down to meet her gaze. That concern was still on his expression, the one that was causing her such confusion, as if her welfare somehow mattered to him.

_…__the welfare of a lady._

"Spare her," Norrington spoke, lifting his gaze back to Jones. "Spare her, and I… I will go with you, willingly, back to the _Dutchman_."

Jones snorted derisively. "You will come, willingly or no!"

The steel edge tightened against her throat, and Ona involuntarily shifted her chin upward. Norrington must have seen the movement because his eyes widened, and he tried to step forward but the cursed crewmen held him back.

"But, but wouldn't it bring you greater satisfaction if I were forced to comply with your orders?" he stammered, his suddenly clumsy words in stark contrast to his earlier commanding tone. "Unwilling but obeying your every command? Spare her and you have leverage. Kill her, and you gain nothing."

Norrington looked between her and Jones with such sharp desperation that she felt something strange stirring in her chest. It was pleasant and warm, and decidedly new.

Suddenly and irrationally more afraid of that sensation than of her own imminent death, she stamped out the feeling until it was gone. Norrington continued to stare pleadingly at Jones behind her, and the moment drew out so long she almost wanted to fidget. The anticipation of waiting for the steel to split her skin and spill her life onto the deck was, she thought, probably worse than the act itself.

But Jones didn't rob her of life. Instead… he drew the sword away.

"Ye make a fair point, Master Norrington," Jones responded in a self-satisfied murmur. "I'll spare her the cold embrace of death. For now."

Without warning she was shoved forward, causing Ona to stumble and lose her footing. Long arms caught her before she hit the deck, and she instinctively clutched onto the anchoring weight. She realized she was gripping gold trim and navy broadcloth. Ona looked up through her tangled hair to find sea-green eyes staring back at her.

"Are you harmed?" Norrington asked quietly, searching her eyes for a sign of… of something. Of what? That she was hurt? Afraid?

"I'm fine," she said hastily, straightening and separating herself from his steadying hands. Her skin suddenly felt too hot, her heart was beating too fast, and she found she couldn't meet his eye. All things which made her even more agitated and embarrassed.

"Enough time has been wasted chasing down our beloved admiral," Jones barked, snapping Ona's attention back to the dire situation at hand as she watched the _Dutchman's _crew begin to move.

"Gather the recruits who wish to come aboard; we need to restock our numbers after the Lord Governor has so carelessly depleted them," Jones continued to order his men. "Oh, where is my mind? I nearly forgot."

He turned to Franklin, who was still kneeling on the deck, his face pale but determined as he glared at Jones. Jones stared back, his head slightly cocked to the side, but Ona didn't see a bird this time. She saw a cold-blooded reptile.

"I have no need of yer services, Captain," he announced in a cheery tone. "Ye are relieved of duty."

And then Jones pulled back his arm, jabbed downward, and ran his sword straight through Franklin's heart.

As if from a great distance, Ona was aware her legs had given out, and she was being held aloft by someone's arms her around the waist. But she paid them no mind. She couldn't tear her eyes away from Franklin's face.

He looked surprised at the sudden appearance of the shining piece of steel embedded in his chest. And then he looked up, straight at Ona, as if nothing else in the world mattered. Not Jones, not his dead and dying crew, not his ruined ship that had once meant so much to him. His grey eyes, never wavering, were so focused on her that she almost forgot what it was that was happening.

For a moment, there was only Ona and Franklin. All the shared moments of joy and laughter, and heartache and loss. There was so much that she still needed to say to him, left unspoken because she had thought they never needed to be said aloud, but she had been wrong. She had been so wrong.

Franklin mouthed two words to her, and then Jones yanked the sword from his chest, blood spurting from the wound as it dripped down his faded red waistcoat. But those grey eyes, once so full of mirth and dry wit, now became unfocused and empty.

He fell to the deck without a sound.

It started from the bottom of her stomach, traveling upward along her spine, and then it was released in a scream of rage, of horror, of vengeance seeking to be quenched. Whoever was holding her must not have been prepared for the strength of her ferocity, because she tore through their clutching fingers with ease. She ran straight for the singular focus of her hatred, and she knew she could be stopped no more than a raging hurricane.

Several of the men-creatures tried to grab her, but she tore through them too. She punched, kicked, bit them like a wild beast, all while keeping Jones in her sight. Her only goal was to reach him, needing to taste his blood on her lips and feel her nails tear into his flesh.

His heartless smirk further fueled her fury, and she would not stop, she would not cease, until he lay dead at her feet.

She never did get her wish. A hard force slammed into the back of her head, and blackness enveloped her, dragging her down into merciful nothingness.


	15. The Dutchman's Due

James stared at the plank in his hand as if he'd never seen it before. In fact, he hadn't. He had picked up the piece of wood and swung before he'd understood what he was doing.

He turned his gaze down to Ona, unconscious on the blood-stained deck of the _Mariner's Lament, _horror crawling up his spine at what he had done. And worse, not knowing why he had done it.

The monstrous crew just stared at him, seemingly as surprised as he was. Jones finally gave a baleful, deep laugh, apparently delighted by this turn of events.

"Well done, Master Norrington. Well done." He signaled two of his men nearby and said, "Grab the captain's daughter. She's comin' aboard."

James stared at Jones as he walked past, senseless and stunned, but then he got moving once he fully processed the words.

"You said you would spare her!" James shouted as he caught up to Jones. He came to an abrupt halt as the captain turned on him, his blue eyes pale with malice.

"And I did, from the death she would have met by my sword." Jones gave a small, vicious smile. "Ye said nothing of her freedom, Master Norrington. Next time you make a contract with the Devil, be sure to read the fine print!"

The crew laughed uproariously at their captain's wit as they went about their cleanup. James watched helplessly as they killed most of the survivors and took a few stragglers onboard the _Dutchman_. The cursed ship had collided with the _Mariner's Lament_ at some point, its jagged bow now piercing the side to hold it in place, like a swordfish impaling its prey.

James couldn't move, couldn't react, even when one of the crewmen carried Ona past him and walked onto the deck of the ship that now, apparently, owned his soul.

He had failed to prevent this from happening. He had failed Captain Sharp. Failed to save Ona. Failed every soul above the _Mariner's Lament._ And not just because Jones had managed to track him down. Oh, no, his failings preceded this event by months, marked by the moment he had walked into Beckett's office (_his_ office) and handed the greedy little man a beating burlap sack.

A crewman, the one with the head like a hammerhead shark (_Maccus? Was that his name?) _grabbed James by his coat lapel and dragged him onto the _Dutchman_. Not ten seconds later, several loud booms cracked the air and his vision was temporarily obscured by the smoke of cannonade.

When it cleared, he got a chilling view of the _Mariner's Lament,_ listing to the side. She then gave a final, agonizing moan like the dying beast she was, and sank beneath the golden waters of the morning sea.

Maccus pulled at him again and James went without resistance, too stunned to fight, and he didn't struggle even when the sailor dragged him deeper into the ship. The close confines began to stir something in him, though—memories of the last time he was here.

A clandestine escape. A stolen kiss. A pike below the heart.

Maccus opened the door to the single cell of the brig and without fanfare threw him inside. James grabbed onto the middle column before he could fall, but he immediately regretted the action and flinched away with a hiss through his teeth. Sharp-lipped mollusks had cut into the palms, but when he looked down at his hands, he saw they were mostly protected by cloth bandages. _Her_ bandages.

"Welcome back, _Admiral_," Maccus mocked with a smirk. He then slammed the cell door shut and turned away, laughing as he exited the brig. James paid him no mind—he had just spotted the prone figure on the ground and was on his knees in an instant.

He cupped her shoulder in his hand, suddenly fearful of what he might find. But she was warm, and alive, and James exhaled in relief as he saw strands of hair move with her breath.

"Ona?" he asked quietly, his voice tight with strong emotion. "Ona, can you hear me?"

He brushed her hair out of her face and curled it behind her ear, noting how pale she was. But she was breathing, and her heartbeat sounded steady when he lowered his head and pressed his ear to her chest.

James was worried he had struck her too hard. He was also worried _why_ he had struck her at all. When Jones' sword had plunged into Franklin's chest, his first instinct had been to hold Ona and turn her away from the sight.

Instead, something had shifted inside him. For a moment, James hadn't felt like himself. He'd felt like someone else. Someone capable of striking a young woman into unconsciousness without hesitation and remorse.

James shivered and moved away, wondering if she was safe with him. He sat with his back to the wall, but then thought better when he realized the wall was alive with barnacles, clams, and other sea creatures. Instead, he placed himself between the door and Ona's unconscious body. He didn't know what, if any, protections he could afford her, but it was the very least he could do after the catastrophic events that had just occurred.

Captain Sharp, murdered. Most of the crew dead or taken. And Ona… her reaction to Sharp's death had caught him completely off-guard. He had seen grief and rage in many forms, but never with such intensity. Four crewmen had had her in their grasps, and still the woman had inched forward, fighting with the unstoppable force of a crashing wave to get to Jones.

And then James had… had what? _Helped_ Jones? Acted on his behalf as a member of his crew? The thought made him shiver with disgust and loathing. Though for himself or the captain, he didn't know.

With nothing to occupy his mind, or silence his fear or guilt, James couldn't help but recall the strange tales the crew had told of the navigator. Had any of it been true, or was it all embellishments created in the minds of superstitious sailors faced with a terrifying death? Could Ona predict storms, sense dangerous waters, and avoid enemy ships due to some kind of unknown power? _Was _she some kind of witch who could bring men back from the dead? He had seen stranger things, as evident by his surroundings.

No, the question that weighed most heavily on his mind was one he couldn't begin to fathom. Now that Jones had them in his grasp, what would he do to them? What would he do to _her?_

James looked down at the woman in question, and he felt his expression darken into something bleak and hopeless.


	16. The Mariner's Lament

**Then**

It was her screams that caused him to bolt upright, nearly spilling from his hammock on the rough journey from deep sleep to fast awakening.

Franklin leapt from his sleeping rung, pulled on his boots, and dashed up to the deck. That's where the screams had come from, he was sure of it, and he was proved correct as he came to a sudden halt, shocked by what he saw.

Rochester, Mako, and several other crewmembers held Ona against the mainmast, swords pointed at her throat. Other men had pulled the longboat onto the deck and were piling spare pieces of wood into it.

Franklin couldn't fathom the scene, his senses temporarily fled, but they returned at the sight of the captain standing nearby. His relief at seeing the man was replaced by a sense of foreboding when he realized Ulysses was watching and doing nothing to put a stop to it.

"What's the meaning of this, sir?" Franklin spoke in alarm, his gaze flitting between Ona and Ulysses. Ona looked frightened. He'd never seen Ona look frightened before. Not like this. And it chilled him to the bone.

Ulysses glared at him with an expression as cold as ice, which chilled him further.

"I'm executing my duties as master of this ship," Ulysses said, holding his hands behind his back as he watched the proceedings. "And as second mate, you will see those duties carried out, to the letter."

"And what duties would those be?" he inquired with a sharpness that gave credit to his name. Ulysses turned his gaze on him, that cold look never leaving his face.

"To see that this unnatural, ungodly creature be put to death, of course."

Franklin was stunned, almost too stunned to speak.

_"__What?"_

Ulysses cleared his throat and clarified, "She is a sea-witch. A water nymph. A siren of the sea, responsible for the deaths of hundreds of good men, no doubt."

"What evidence do you have of this?" Franklin demanded. He tried not to look in Ona's direction, knowing if he did, he might lose his composure and just start cutting through the men like wheat in a field.

He had never been so incensed in his life, but he had to keep his calm and talk the captain down from this foolish, dangerous behavior. It was Ona's only chance of survival.

"Robert told me an interesting tale. One in which you conspired with the sea-witch in order to avail us of our route to Nassau."

Franklin's mouth went as dry as a desert.

"Do you deny the charges?" Ulysses asked as he turned a cold eye onto his second mate.

_Do I deny the charges? _Arrogant, pig-headed man. How could he stand there in judgement when Franklin knew for a fact the man was no more righteous than he was? Less so, if the rumors about the living cargo he had once carried were true.

"Am I on trial as well, then?" Franklin asked just as coolly as he glared up at his captain. A man he had trusted, once.

"That all depends on you," Ulysses responded, turning his head and nodding down at the scene below. "Are you willing to light the torch and put an end to the unholy creature yourself?"

Franklin followed his gaze… and finally realized what the crew were doing. They were piling wood into the longboat so they could build a funeral pyre. And burn Ona atop it.

"You're mad," Franklin said in a breathless whisper. "You're barking mad."

Ulysses sighed and looked down at his feet.

"I'm disappointed in your answer, son. Very disappointed." Ulysses nodded to some of the men nearby. As they grabbed ahold of Franklin's arms, he added, "You would have made a great captain, one day."

Franklin fought as hard as he could, but they were too many and he wasn't strong enough. Even though their knuckles connected with his face and collided with his stomach, it was the sight of Ona that knocked the fight out of him. She was watching him closely, her eyes wide and intense in a way he had never seen before.

At the time, he had thought it had been fear. Looking back, he realized it was something far more portentous.

Ulysses called out to them, forcing the men to turn Franklin around so he lost sight of her.

"Second Mate Franklin Sharp," he spoke in a loud, booming voice, "you are hereby charged with conspiring with an evil force of the heathen gods. Found guilty of this charge, you are relieved from your duties as second mate, as a crew of the _Intrepid_, and as a living man on God's green earth. As decreed by the sovereignty of the sea and as master of the ship, I condemn you to be hanged by the neck until dead. May God have mercy on your soul."

Franklin didn't even have time to spit to show Ulysses just how he felt, when something was slipped and tightened around his neck. He looked up to see a rope had been flung across the lowest yard of the mainmast, the end of it now leading to him.

Fear slamming into his gut; he clawed at the rope around his neck, trying to pry it off, but he was lifted from his feet and hoisted into the air.

He had nearly drowned once, at the age of five, when he had fallen into a pond and hadn't learned to swim yet. The panic he had experienced then came to the forefront now, and Franklin knew his death was going to be a horrific one. His neck snapping was one thing—this was being forced to watch his death come at a slow, agonizing pace, helpless to stop it.

His fingers continued to ply at the rope around his throat, but the movements were sluggish now, slow and clumsy. The world was receding from the edges of his vision and he could hear his heartbeat roaring in his ears. Slower, slower, loud but growing ever so much slower.

There was another sound too, faint and far away. Screaming.

_Please,_ he begged to whatever gods would hear him. _Let her die quick. Don't let her suffer. She doesn't deserve this. Have mercy on her. Have mercy on us both._

The world condensed into a single pinprick of light in front of his eyes. The lack of air wasn't as much of a concern now. He was slipping away into that black unknown, and he wasn't nearly afraid as he had been a moment before. What was he afraid of? They couldn't hurt him now. Nothing could. He only regretted he was too late to—

Franklin had the sudden sensation of the world falling, or maybe it was he who had lost his footing, because surely being dead didn't hurt this much, and _why was he lying on the deck of the ship—_

Air, blessed air, rushed into his lungs, and he sucked it in. And oh it hurt, but it was a holy pain, the feeling of his limbs returning to life, all tortuous pins and needles he was grateful to feel. He couldn't deny he was shaken at the realization of how close he had been to accepting the cold embrace of death.

Franklin sat upright, pulling the loosened rope from his neck and coughing harshly. He rubbed the rope burn around his throat, still gasping for air as a wicked headache began to pulsate across his skull.

He tried to force his thoughts into some kind of cohesion. What had happened? Had they changed their minds? Perhaps Ulysses had simply wanted to scare him as punishment, and had never planned on killing him.

The strong scent of copper hit him out of nowhere and he flung his eyes wide open. Death, red death, painted the wood of the ship, spilled from open throats and dismembered limbs and disemboweled bellies.

It was everywhere. All around him. The world had turned to a crimson hue. And he wondered if perhaps he had died after all and gone straight down to the burning pits of Hades.

Franklin somehow got to his feet, wobbling and unsteady. The longboat still had its pile of wood, left forgotten and unlit. He turned in a slow circle, trying to make sense of the destruction, but nothing felt real in that moment. Not until he heard a faint, sharp gasp.

It had come from the quarterdeck, and Franklin looked up to see his captain standing alone, a piece of metal sticking through his chest. He didn't understand what he was seeing until Ona pulled the sword free from his back, and the captain fell, dead at her feet.

His empty eyes stared at Franklin like an accusation.

_No,_ Franklin thought, numb, as he looked up at the woman he had saved. Had befriended. Cared for.

_No. She didn't. She couldn't._

Ona descended the stairs, the sword in her hand dripping with the blood of the slain, though it was aimed downward and not at him. Franklin stared at her, unable to fight off that numb denial that made him feel both too stupid and too aware.

She was a grisly sight. The cloth tarp she wore like a dress was splattered in a painting of misery, the canvas stained with slaughter. As she drew closer, he was finally able to tear his eyes away from the mess and up to her face.

Her blue-grey eyes stared back at him, as calm and composed as they ever were. And that was the thing that finally snapped him out of his shocked stupor.

"Ona," he choked out her name. "Ona… _what have you done_?"

She blinked. Furrowed her brows. Appeared troubled and even confused by his statement.

"I saved you, Franklin."

_Sweet baby Jesus of Nazareth,_ he thought with a shiver, as if someone had just passed over his grave.

"Ona… you… killed them _all_."

Her eyebrows furrowed further.

"They were all trying to kill you."

He didn't know what to say. What could he say? She had just slaughtered an entire crew and spoke of it as if she had peeled a sack of potatoes.

"Why, Ona?" he asked, his voice cracking painfully in his throat. "Why?"

She studied him for a long moment, then her eyes dropped to the deck and she said, "You are… unhappy with me."

Franklin felt as if he was going to cry. He hadn't wanted any of this. He didn't want Ona to die, didn't want to die himself, certainly, but _this?_

A noise from under the staircase startled him, and Franklin turned to see the cabin boy trying to sneak out from his hiding place. Ona descended on him like an Osprey on a silvery fish.

In that moment, Franklin's unspoken question of how she had managed to murder over twenty men singlehandedly was answered. The look in her eyes would have frozen the stoutest of hearts. There was no mercy there, no clemency, and not an ounce of humanity.

_"__Ona, no!"_

Franklin threw himself between her and the boy and braced himself to be run through. The tip of her steel blade stopped inches from his heart.

_"__Move,"_ she ordered in a tone that made his chest freeze and his spine quiver. The calmness was gone from her expression. She glared past Franklin to stare at the boy, her eyes as cold and unknowable as the sea itself.

"No," he said, his voice somehow steady.

Something in her expression changed, though he couldn't tell what it was. Perhaps he had never understood her to begin with.

"Move. Please, Franklin."

"I won't," he responded firmly. He stared at her unflinchingly, trying to show her with his eyes what he was having trouble expressing with his words.

"Why not?" she asked. "He would have killed you too."

"He's just a boy, Ona!" Franklin almost shouted. "Thirteen years old! I'm barely more than a handful of years older myself! Would you kill me if I was him?"

Hesitation flickered across her features, but her sword never wavered, its tip still aimed at his heart.

"But you are not him. You are you. Franklin."

"Yes, but that's my _point._ I could have been him. I could have been… any of these men."

"But you are not like them," she said, her confidence so unyielding he almost didn't question it. But Franklin did, he had to, if he wanted to save the boy from his fate.

"How do you know that?" he asked quietly. "What makes you think I'm different than anyone else?"

She stared at him for a long moment, her gaze studying him so intently that he felt sweat bead upon his brow.

"Because when I look into your eyes, I know who you are. I know what you are capable of. And it is not… this."

She shifted her gaze to look around the ship. He knew she was referring to what the men had done earlier—strung Franklin up by a rope while building a bonfire to burn Ona upon—but it felt like she was indicating the massacre around them. In either case, she was right. He wasn't capable of senseless violence and malicious murder.

Apparently, she was.

_But maybe… maybe she doesn't have to be._

"Please, Ona," he said in that quiet, pleading voice again. "Let the boy live."

She only stared at him, so he pressed forward in earnest.

"Killing him now would be murder. You… you did save my life. By killing those men, you protected me. Protected yourself. But killing this boy… it would be cold-blooded murder. And I know you're not a murderer, Ona. Are you?"

She slightly tilted her head at the question, her gaze shifting from him to the boy behind him. Franklin held his breath, praying and hoping that she would understand, because if she didn't…

He breathed again when she lowered the sword. When she dropped it entirely and it clattered to the deck, the boy ran past them and disappeared into the bowels of the ship.

Ona ignored him. Her gaze had turned to their surroundings as she took full survey of the slaughterhouse that was once called the _Intrepid._

She slowly turned back to Franklin, and her eyes were soft with sadness. Not for the lives she had taken, no, but for disappointing him. He knew this was true, because she said, "I am sorry I upset you, Franklin. But I could not allow them to take your life."

"I know," he said softly. He moved closer, carefully, as if he was approaching a wounded animal. Or perhaps, a rabid one. "I know. It's going to be all right, Ona. I promise."

Her expression saddened further. Perhaps deep down, she did understand she had done something wrong. Something unforgivable? Franklin wasn't sure on that point. Moments ago, he himself had wanted to run a sword through half the crew. What made him so different than her? How could he condemn her actions when he was in agreement with them in principle?

"It's going to be all right," he repeated as he reached out to touch her arm. She didn't flinch away. She just stared at him, and it struck him in that moment that without him, she was truly alone in the world. The thought made Franklin do something truly foolish, but he couldn't stand to see her looking so… adrift.

So he wrapped his arms around her, slowly enough that she could easily pull away. But she didn't. Ona didn't embrace him in return, but she tolerated the gesture. Franklin took it as a hopeful sign.

"It's going to be all right…" he murmured softly. His words were perhaps more for his benefit than hers, but they did seem to calm her, as indicated by her relaxing muscles. He wanted to reassure her that he wasn't going to abandon her after this. Because he knew he wasn't going to leave her, _couldn't_ leave her, probably for the rest of his days.

Ona was more complex than he could have ever imagined, but she was worthy of life. She could be cold, aloof, and angry. She also understood him, indulged in his playful humor, and sometimes bantered with him in return.

And she cared about him. There was no doubt of that. And as demonstrated a moment ago, she _was _capable of mercy.

It was a start. So long as Ona had someone to care for her, someone to be her guiding star through the dark night, she would not go astray. Franklin swore, then and there, to be that someone for as long as he drew breath.

Ona would never be alone; he would make sure of that. One way or another.


	17. Drowning

**Now**

The first thing Ona noticed as she muddled her way to consciousness was that something was… missing.

The back of her head hurt something awful, and she reached up and cradled the sore spot with her palm. She opened her eyes and saw she was lying with her back against the floor, her head tilted to the side. The floor felt rough against her cheek; it was not the well-maintained wood of the _Mariner's_ deck. It looked half-rotted and spotted with grime and tiny barnacles. Drawing her eyebrows forward, she carefully raised her head. She was in a decrepit cell, much larger than the one on their ship, and empty save for herself and…

James Norrington sat with his back to a wooden column. He was facing away from her, towards the cell door, and his eyes were unfocused, as if lost in thought. Seeing him evoked some memory trying to rise to the surface, but it did nothing to aid in her confusion.

How had they gotten here? Where was here? Where was Franklin? Where—

It hit her like a spear through the chest. Or perhaps, a sword through the heart. The scene replayed itself before her eyes: Jones, turning to Franklin, speaking to him in that low, mocking tone, and then piercing his heart straight through.

His eyes. She couldn't stop seeing his _eyes._ They were so… resigned. Calm. Not happy, but accepting of his fate. Those eyes that now saw nothing, but had once seen her, known her, and had looked at her with such warmth that she felt possibly worthy of it.

Gone. All gone. Snuffed out in one swift, cruel moment.

The sound that escaped her was nothing she had ever made before. She had heard a similar sound, once, from a mother whale as her calf floated at the end of a harpoon, dying. That was what it sounded like. A high keening so miserable it could not be described with spoken language.

The sound did nothing to bring relief to the hole that had opened in her chest, gaping and ravenous as it attempted to consume her. She curled her limbs around her as tightly as she could, burying her head in her arms, seeking to end the torment in any way possible, but it did nothing except condense her agony into a smaller space.

There was a voice. Words spoken. Meaningless noise. She did not care. She gripped her hair in her hands, trying to hold onto something so she would not fall into that black pit that now occupied the place where her heart had once been.

It was going to kill her, she knew it. Or perhaps, it wouldn't. That would be much worse, she thought.

No more of the voice. That was good. The voice caused her to want to open her eyes. To remember. She didn't want to do any of those things. She would remain here, unmoving and dead, until she actually did become dead and unmoving.

She felt something touch her. A light pressure on her hair. Warm, alive. Soft, but it might as well have been a hot iron branded into her skin, burning her alive. She scuttled backwards, her back hitting something cold and unyielding to stop her retreat.

The bars of her prison. She didn't look at what (_who?)_ had touched her; she simply curled into a tighter ball and hoped it would not touch her again.

An eternity passed, or maybe it was a few moments, but the silence gave way to something else. The voice again. It was speaking some words that held meaning to her once, but she cared not to hear them now. The keening noise had stopped, at least. She was as silent as a dead thing, her sounds stolen from her—consumed by the empty hole within.

But still, the voice continued. At first, it was merely discord, but patterns emerged and the texture of the sound began to take shape in her mind. It was a pleasant baritone, comforting to hear, and it called to her, coaxing her out of her inner torment and misery. She tried to fight it, tried to resist, but the voice reached down somewhere deep inside and disarmed her defensive numbness.

After a time, words began to take hold in reality and no longer sounded like inconsequential din.

"She was always worried something would happen to us," the low voice said. "She sent letters when she could, relaying small things like household affairs and how our father was faring, but most of all, Mother simply wanted to assure herself that her sons still lived."

She remained still as stone, her breath moving in and out at a more steady rhythm. Her attention had successfully been captured by the voice, like a silvery fish in a net.

"Still, as much as she worried, Mother knew we belonged at sea. She used to say our grandfathers were the same way; they weren't happy unless there was a rocking deck under their feet, and she only prayed Eddie and I wouldn't meet the same fate they did. To die at sea. I suppose… her worst fears did come true, in a sense."

The voice paused. She was suddenly gripped with terror that it would cease forever, but it continued on, the tone heavy with weight.

"Father was a completely different sort of man. If his sons hadn't been the seafaring type, I think he would have been gravely disappointed. He wanted us to follow in his footsteps, join the Royal Navy, earn honor for our family name."

A strange noise. Rhythmic. Staccato. A sound of amusement. Laughter.

"He failed to mention the part where earning honor involves relinquishing your dignity and compromising your morals. According to his world view, there is what's right, which is obeying the Crown without question. And then there's wrong, which is… everything else."

A sound like a burdened breath.

"He was… pleased in his letter, after I wrote and told him of my new commission. _Commodore Norrington has a nice ring to it. Took you well long enough,_ he wrote. _All that's left for you is to propose to a fine woman. One who can give you many healthy children. Sons, of course. With your recent promotion, I have no doubt you will have your pick of the litter._ Yes, my father, the decorated former Admiral of the Royal Navy. To him, promotions are simply expected of a son, and a woman is little more than a breeding bitch."

A pause, and then the next words were… tinged with something. Bitter, like briny seawater.

"You can imagine how he reacted when I was reinstated, promoted to Admiral within the East India Company, and had yet to write home about any impending marriages."

The mirthful sound again, but this time it held darkness to it.

"My mother had given him two sons—one had become the captain of a merchant vessel, the other an admiral with the Company—and neither were able to bring him that which he wants most. Matrimony and a continuation of the bloodline. We weren't sons. We were vessels of his legacy."

At some point, Ona had slowly uncurled her limbs. Only enough so she could ease the cramping in her muscles, and so she could watch him as he spoke. She could only view him in profile, his body still turned toward the cell door, and that was just fine. Comfortable. His words weren't directed at her, not really, and yet she still listened with intensity, hanging on to every word as if she could float on them like a raft. One that could spare her from being sucked into the cold depths below.

"As the eldest son, it was my duty to uphold the family honor and bring power to our name. I didn't care for such things, and neither did Eddie. But unlike my brother, I _did_ wish to please Father. I joined the Navy, but it wasn't enough. It was… never enough. Not for him."

His head dipped slightly and his voice grew softer, and Ona couldn't take her eyes from his face.

"It was when Mother died that Eddie and I permanently left London. There was nothing left for us there. My younger brother finally became captain of a ship, and I was assigned to escort the Swann family to Port Royal, where I was to be stationed. That's when… I got my second taste of pirates."

His voice had hardened on the word _pirates_, as if he held especially unpleasant memories for him. Ona slowly rose into a sitting position, silent in her movements, not wanting to interrupt his story as she carefully leaned against the bars. She wasn't as enraptured by his voice now (_no, that was a lie, wasn't it_), but she was interested, almost desperately so, in hearing another's story. She needed… a connection. Something to root her, ground her before she slipped back into that black pit of unending despair.

"We came upon a ship, or what was left of one. There was only one survivor—a young boy by the name of William Turner."

His voice was so softly bitter she could almost taste it, like a tangy perfume on the salty air.

"That boy would one day become the blacksmith's apprentice. And the apprentice would one day woo the heart of the only woman I've ever wanted."

Norrington's smile was caustic, even from this angle.

"It also turned out the apprentice was the son of a pirate, and became a pirate himself. As did the woman I loved. I'm surrounded by bloody pirates and I can't seem to escape them. If only Father could see me now."

Norrington turned his head to look at her, a cursory glance as if he expected her to still be curled inward, unresponsive. He even began to turn his head away, his expression unchanged, but then he quickly looked back and stared at her with widened eyes.

Ona simply watched him while he seemed to be in the midst of deciding what to say.

"I… apologize. I did not realize you were… How are you feeling?"

Feeling. She couldn't think about how she was _feeling_. Not without seeing grey eyes, blank and empty.

"Where is your family now?" she asked, surprised to hear how roughened her voice was. "Your brother and father?" she clarified when he remained silent.

Norrington appraised her for a moment, and his sea-green eyes seemed to stare straight through her in that particular way she disliked. It made her want to shrivel against the iron bars, but it also made her feel seen.

_He can see me. If he can see me, I'm here. And if I'm here, I'm not… there. Seeing those grey eyes._

"My brother ferries goods across the Atlantic, from the Spanish Main to the British Isles," Norrington responded, slowly at first, unsure. "He… well, let's just say with the Company's boot on the neck of all merchants, he became something of a smuggler. One damn step away from being a pirate himself. I knew what he was doing, but even I wasn't about to consign my own brother to be hanged at the gallows."

"And your father?" she asked, a part of her curious why his animosity against pirates seemed so personal, rather than simply a facet of his former profession.

"Still in London," Norrington said, the corner of his lips twitching for some reason. "Holding down the old estate and giving the servants hell, I imagine. We don't often… keep in touch." His eyes narrowed as he focused on her, his tone slightly anxious as he asked, "How… how much did you hear?"

Ona had to think hard in response. When had his voice, first pulling at her attention with its baritone lull, sharpened into words she comprehended?

"You… spoke of your mother. How she feared for you and your brother. And then…" she trailed off, trying to remember the course of his monologue. "Your father. How he reacted to your promotions and… lack of marriage?"

His face blanched, but he gave a reluctant nod and said, "He's a difficult man at the best of times."

There was something in his voice that Ona could catch. Regret? Shame?

"What was your mother like?"

Norrington raised his head, brows raised at her continuous questions. After a moment, his expression softened, and the creases across his forehead vanished.

"She was…" He gave a small laugh, slightly shaking his head as a smile crept on his face. "She was complicated too. Differently than my father, but still a complexity. She was kind to most. My brother and I, and the servants, and people she knew. But… her and Father fought horribly, all the time. Behind closed doors, of course, but we were curious boys with no sense of boundary."

Norrington looked down again, staring at his fingers as they pulled at a loose thread on his brown breeches. His voice grew heavy with the weight of time and memories, and it pulled at Ona like the moon on the tide.

"Eventually, they stopped fighting and chose to ignore each other instead. My father became more taciturn and isolated, while she just seemed to become more tired as the years went on. With the benefit of hindsight, I can see the fire of her spirit had been doused. My father had just… exhausted her to the point where she had nothing left. I think I hate him for it."

Norrington broke off the brown thread and sighed as he tossed it away. Ona hadn't moved closer, but she was leaning forward while listening intently.

"One winter, she became very ill. Some sickness of her lungs which no treatment could cure. She improved that spring, but only marginally, and it lingered for months until she died the following autumn."

He closed his eyes, the pain clearly palpable now, and Ona moved forward without thinking. She crawled across the floor and sat next to him, putting her back against the barnacle-covered pillar as he had. Her sleeve brushed against his coat and he looked up, his face alighting with surprise at her sudden close proximity.

And it _was_ close, a little too close, so Ona turned her head away from him but didn't move from her spot. She could feel the heat of his closeness, and it was a great comfort against the cold chill of the brig.

They didn't speak for a long time. She did not know how long they had been down here, or if Jones was going to just let them rot forever, but either way, she was content to sit there and keep the world, and her darkened, drowning thoughts, at bay.

Eventually, Norrington spoke. His words were halting but his tone was gentle.

"I know something of what you're feeling right now."

She sucked in a breath, suddenly afraid he would address that which she could not, dared not, think about.

"It may not seem like it right now, but what happened wasn't your fault."

She felt her muscles tense so hard they trembled.

"Should I blame you, then?" she snapped, her fists curling against her knees. "The _Dutchman_ only ran us down because _you_ were onboard. Jones wanted you, not us."

Norrington's silence made her want to retreat again, and she did partially, pulling her legs up to her chest as she buried her face against the cloth of her skirt. It was stained dark in many places, from the blood of both mortal and cursed men.

"No. You're right," he finally said. There was something brittle in his voice, and it made her feel even worse. "My presence put you all at risk. Captain Sharp would still be alive if it wasn't for my actions which led me onto your ship."

Ona slowly pulled her face away from her skirts, confusion temporarily suppressing her grief. As a rule, men tended to shift the blame on others, rarely taking responsibility themselves. But Norrington hadn't just taken responsibility for something he'd done, he had taken the blame for things he couldn't control and yet felt had happened because of him.

It was… curious. Atypical. Ona wasn't sure what to think of it, but she realized she didn't_ want_ him to take the blame.

"I saw you before the others did," she said, abruptly and without planning. "I dove into the water. And when Franklin considered throwing you back into the sea, I convinced him to let you stay. I swore to him I would take personal responsibility for you."

"What?"

Norrington must have turned his head toward her, because his voice was much closer to her ear now. She tried not to fidget, despite the shiver that wanted to curl up her spine.

"Why would you do such a thing?" he asked again, his tone bewildered.

"I… I don't _know._ Does the reason even matter now?" she finally answered, and though the words were aggressive, her tone was subdued. Tired. A wave of exhaustion rolled over here, and suddenly all she wanted to do was sleep.

"It does to me," Norrington said, all soft sincerity.

"Why did you speak about your family?" shot back instead of answering his question. She _did_ want to know why, because it didn't make any sense. They had been captured, thrown into the brig on an enemy ship, and the one person he was trapped with had been unresponsive and… and he had thought it was the opportune moment to speak about personal matters?

"Because I believed it would help."

Now it was Ona's turn to turn her head to stare at him, as his answer did nothing to alleviate her confusion.

"Help? Help what?"

"Help you."

"I do not need _help."_

He glanced at her, a simple look, but it lingered strangely.

"You had just watched someone you cared about, murdered in a most cruel way. That sort of thing leaves deep wounds, and it was clear you were suffering. I didn't think you could even _hear _me, so I did the only thing I could think of and just started… talking."

He looked away from her, down to his hands. They were rather filthy and the bandages were beginning to turn grey.

"I… I know it's silly, and it might not have made the situation any less egregious, but I thought… I thought it would be better to hear a voice, to know you're not alone, than to bear your grief in solitude."

Norrington sounded so grim, almost lost, as if there was no hope left in the worlds and his actions amounted to little.

There was that odd feeling in her chest again. A slight, twisting pain. She wanted to ignore it, brush it off as nothing of import, and go back to festering in her own misery.

But… Franklin would have been disappointed in her.

"It helped."

Norrington raised his head, his expression one of surprise at her response, but Ona said nothing more and moved back to the other side of the cage. Her heart ached, and the rest of her didn't fare much better, and she desperately needed sleep. She appreciated what he was trying to do, but the conversation had worn her down and she needed to be alone.

Ona lied down, tucked her head under her arm, closed her eyes, and tried to find the insensate state of sleep. The swaying of the ship did not comfort her—it was not the calming, rhythmic roll of the_ Mariner_, and she realized she would never feel the ship's gentle rocking motion again. Never again hear the quiet creaking of the hull as the ship glided through the water, or the tranquil hush of the wind through its sails on a serene, star-filled night.

She brought her limbs closer to her body, feeling the echoes of the maddening, drowning grief tug at the edges of her mind. The only emotion she had ever felt this strongly before was rage. Anger was a familiar companion, and a useful one at that. But this… this unending sorrow, this all-consuming grief… it terrified her.

She was pulled from her dark thoughts when she noticed another sound—quiet and rhythmic. It was not the ship at all, but was a source of comfort she had not expected.

And Ona drifted away, lulled to sleep by the slow, steady softness of another person's breathing.


	18. Punishments and Revelations

_**Content warning for gore, torture, and body horror.**_

* * *

James slept in fitful bursts, flinching awake just to realize where he was and remembering all over again how he had come to be there. To see the rotting, encrusted bulkheads and feel the dead weight of the air like a funeral shroud on his skin.

And each time, without fail, he would glance over his left shoulder to reassure himself that Ona was still there—that Jones' men hadn't slipped past him and dragged her away. He had no doubt what the cursed captain had in store for them would be unpleasant, but he swore to himself he would do all he could to shield her from it. It was the very least he could do.

James could imagine his own fate going one of two ways.

One, Jones would force him into servitude for the rest of his days (or for 100 years, he wasn't entirely clear on his actual contractual obligations to the cursed ship).

Or two, Jones would be ordered to bring James back to the Company to be punished as a traitor. And Beckett would… what? What could the man do to him now that he was cursed? Force Jones to relinquish his hold over him? Return James to the _Endeavor_ so he could be tried, convicted, and executed for his betrayal of Company and Crown?

_The crew are not bound to me. They are bound to the _Dutchman.

James recalled the words spoken by Jones to Governor Swann not so long ago when they had both come aboard. The Governor, after believing Elizabeth had been killed by Jones' beast, had ripped the bayonet right off a marine's musket and had nearly stabbed the captain's cursed heart where it lay in its chest. James had prevented it, but only just, by grabbing the Governor's wrists and staying his hand.

_I should have let the Governor kill him,_ James thought bitterly, staring grimly across the dark brig. But then he recalled the other warnings Jones had also uttered that day, telling both James and Governor Swann what would become of one who stabbed the heart.

_When I carved that traitorous vessel from my body, I cast upon it a terrible geas. If you stab my heart, yours must take its place._

Slowly, and for the first time in what felt like ages… James began to formulate a plan—one of his own accord, and not born of selfish intent to regain lost honor and prestige. He knew how to kill Jones; after all, the means of his demise had been annotated to James by the captain himself. Beckett may have ordered his silence on the matter, but he could not order the knowledge erased from his mind.

_The crew are not bound to me. They are bound to the _Dutchman_. And the _Dutchman _must have a captain. Will ye serve?_

It was a high price to pay, but who else was there but James to pay it? And it was not as if he could hope to live a long, happy life—not after all the sins he had committed in the name of honor and duty. It would be a fitting end for one such as he, wouldn't it? And perhaps… perhaps it would erase some of the red ink in his ledger. He could not undo the wrongs of the past, but he could make amends for his failures.

Perhaps there was hope of redemption, after all.

With that bleakly comforting thought, he drifted back to sleep. It didn't feel like he had slept for long when he was abruptly awakened by a loud, clanging noise.

James started and sat up, and then leapt to his feet when one of the men threw something at his feet, splattering its contents across the toes of his boots.

It was a tray of food. Well… _food_ in the loosest sense of the term, as the meal consisted of two headless, rotting fish, surrounded by small hermit crabs and sea snails.

"Enjoy yer highfalutin, fancy, four-course meal, Admiral!" the cursed sailor jeered, guffawing as he walked away. James looked down at the mess in disgust, trying to scrape the pieces of viscera from his boots. On closer inspection, he noted that the tiny sea creatures on the tray were still very much alive, and they began to scatter across the floor, upset by their rough treatment.

It wasn't until the smell of the rotting fish washed over him that his stomach turned. But it did not turn with revulsion at the overwhelming smell. No, quite the opposite. He felt suddenly sickened by the fact he _wasn't _sickened. The decaying odor, which should have been offensive to his sensibilities, was mildly… _enticing?_

He turned away, covering the sleeve of his coat over his mouth, refusing to believe what his senses were telling him. Why a meal composed of decomposing flesh was anything but nausea-inducing to him, he didn't understand. And he didn't want to.

James nearly jumped when he glanced to his right and found a pair of bright blue eyes hovering inches away.

"Are you ill?" One inquired curiously, apparently not all bothered by the offensive-smelling mess on the floor. James took the moment to get a better look at her, wanting to gauge her state of wellbeing after yesterday's events (_had it been yesterday? How long have we been here?_)_._

Her yellow hair hung in limp strands around her face, and she seemed paler than usual. But her expression was steady and her eyes, though bordered with dark circles, were clear of redness and tears.

All in all, she seemed to be faring well, perhaps even better than James at this point. There was stiffness every time he swallowed—a constant reminder that the scales had now proceeded to grow up his neck. He knew they were there, hidden under his white cravat, but he refused to remove the cloth and touch the cursed things. To do so would be to acknowledge their existence, and to be faced with the truth.

He wondered how long it would be before there was nothing of James left. How long before he was one of Jones' creatures, mindlessly serving the ship and its cruel captain? Or worse… becoming a cruel, savage version of himself. He had caught a glimpse of that person when he had knocked Ona unconscious, and he did not wish to meet that man again. Especially while she was trapped in here with him, alone.

James realized she was still waiting for an answer, her large eyes watching him so intently that he immediately felt hot under the collar.

"No. I am fine." He sought to reassure her with a quick smile, but even that brief gesture felt hollow and unconvincing.

Her gaze dropped to his chest where some of his skin was exposed due to the rough state of his waistcoat and shirt. _Ah, yes._ His words could lie but his body could not, his truths in full view for her to see.

"You do not look well, James Norrington. Davy Jones' affliction is spreading."

"I… I will be fine," he tried again, and again convinced no one. James looked away from her, unable to bear the weight of her unyielding stare, looking straight through him as if she could see his very soul.

_My soul,_ he thought with wry amusement. _What a poor, shriveled thing that would be. A truly pitiful sight to behold._

Something warm curled around his hand. James was not the sort to flinch like a gun-shy horse, but he twitched involuntarily as Ona wrapped his right hand in both of hers. He quickly realized she hadn't done it out of a sense of comfort or pity—she was staring at his hands with narrowed eyes. She then untied the cloth strips around his knuckles, methodically removing them and dropping the dirtied cloth to the floor.

James stared in wonderment at his own hand, his amazement quickly turning to shock. The gashes and cuts were gone, but in their place: Fine lines of small, delicate dark green scales.

_No,_ he thought with faint denial. _No. This can't be happening._

Ona released his hand and reached for the other, and James allowed her to take it without resistance. He was too numb to do anything else_ but_ let her examine the new additions to his flesh.

"What is happening to me?"

He didn't know he was going to say the words until he whispered them, his voice broken and halting. The back of his left hand was just as pebbly and scaly as his right. Suddenly, he reached up to his face and pressed his fingers to his nose. James expected the sharp pain that had been there before, his nose broken during his scuffle with the _Mariner's_ crew, but now there was…

…nothing. No pain, not even a tinge of soreness. It had even straightened itself out, too.

He gave a brittle laugh, one which sounded so unlike him that it was almost frightening.

"It's not on my face now, is it?" The question was meant to be in jest, but his voice wavered too much.

"No," she responded evenly. "Not that I can see."

James fixed his eyes upon her again, a little bewildered. How was she able to remain so calm? He had seen his fair share of strange things. Nothing got much stranger than sword-fighting with living skeletons under the pale moonlight. Well, nothing much until now, anyway. Perhaps it was because this strange thing was happening_ to_ him that made it much more frightening.

_My body betrays me. _It was _still _betraying him. And it would continue to warp and twist and defile itself to the _Dutchman's _designs until…

_Part of the crew, part of the ship._

James suddenly gripped her by the arms, his fingers encircling them as tightly as the panic did around his throat.

"Ona. You must listen to me."

Her eyes widened slightly, and James thought perhaps she wasn't as unflappable as he first suspected. But she didn't try to pull away or fight him off; she simply stared at him with those intent, stormy eyes.

"The first opportunity you find. The first chance you come across. You _must _escape from the _Dutchman_." He took a deep breath, steeling his voice so she would not mistake the seriousness of the situation. "Run. And don't look back."

Ona's eyes never left his, she didn't even seem to blink, but there was a small troubled crease in the middle of her brow. After a long moment, in which James wondered if his hands had remained for longer than was appropriate, she said:

"Where would I go?"

James just stared at her, flummoxed. Where would she go? Somewhere, anywhere but here. He assumed she had family she could return to. Friends who would shelter her.

Didn't she?

Before he could ask, or simply tell her to flee to the nearest port and never leave land again, a loud bang from across the hold caused James to pull away. He looked up to see two cursed crewman, one of them Jimmy Legs. The other looked… familiar. Still mostly human, though reddish coral had begun to grow along his cheek and up his bald head.

It was Beecher, he realized. Joined Davy Jones' crew, after all.

Jimmy Legs unlocked the cell door, opened it with a rusty creak, and leered at them with his bloodshot eyes.

"Look lively, dearies," he sneered. "Cap'n wants ye both on deck. Come on, we ain' got all day!" he snapped impatiently when neither of them moved. Without thinking, James had placed himself between the open door and the navigator.

"What does he want?" James demanded in a voice so low it was like a growl. Jimmy Legs, perhaps not used to someone defying his orders, growled himself and lunged forward, wrapping his rough hand around James' arm.

"Ye can ask him yerself, Lord Admiral!" Jimmy Legs mocked, followed by cruel laughter as he pulled James along with him. "Grab the girl, ye half-brained idiot!" he yelled over his shoulder.

James twisted and fought to look back, catching a glimpse of Beecher pulling Ona from the cell. She tripped over her own feet from the force of it, and he gave a second hard yank, causing her to nearly fall.

James had never felt more kinship with the phrase "boiling blood" than he did at that moment. He fought harder against his captor's hold, but Jimmy Legs simply chuckled at his pathetic efforts. And they were pathetic—Jones' crew weren't just hideous, they were nigh invincible and hellishly strong. He had found that out the hard way on Isla Cruces, and had only escaped with his life (and prized stolen heart) because what they had in strength, they lacked in intellectual prowess.

The two sailors dragged him and the navigator through the bowels of the ship, giving James an opportunity to assess the state of the ship since his… _involuntary removal._

As far as he could tell, there were no Company men in sight—only Jones' crew, staring at them with leering smiles and hateful eyes. Jimmy Legs pushed him up a flight of stairs into the cargo hold, and then they climbed one last set of staircases before reaching their destination.

A shaft of sunlight, streaming through the doorway that led to the deck, was so blinding that James had to shield his face as pain spiked behind his eyes. He was shoved forward but he managed to keep his balance as he stepped through the doorway, automatically ducking his head so he wouldn't bang it on the top of the frame.

James rubbed at his eyes to soothe the ache, but when he opened them, he immediately wished he still remained sun-blind. The deck was full of mutilated, twisted crewman, and it was difficult to tell them apart from the ship's rotting wood and moldy tackle. There were a few who were still more man than sea-creature, and he recognized them as the remaining survivors of the _Mariner._

A sense of existential dread filled his heart, made worse by the sight of the captain himself. Davy Jones stood before him, his arms behind his back as he appraised his two prisoners with a gleam of amusement in his icy eyes.

"Good morn', Master Norrington and Miss Ona. I hope ye enjoyed yer accommodations and slept well through the night."

This earned a murmur of chuckles through the gathered crew. Jones continued to stare at them with falsely benevolent cheer, as if genuinely waiting for an answer on the satisfaction of their bed service.

When no answer was forthcoming, Jones slightly cocked his head with a rather beetle-like gesture and said, "Strip Master Norrington down to his breeches."

The two strong grips around his arms caused James to fight back at once, but his struggles were pointless, like a bird beating against iron bars. The two sailors dragged him to the mainmast and forced off his navy coat, followed by his golden waistcoat and white linen shirt. He was kicked behind the knee, forcing him hard onto the deck, and his heart beat frantically in his chest. He had seen too many lashings through the years to be ignorant of what came next.

"Showin' yer true colors so soon?" came Jones' voice from behind, almost purr-like in its satisfaction. Not understanding what he meant, James looked over his shoulder to glare at the captain, and then followed his gaze downward. He couldn't see much from this angle, but he saw enough.

Dark green, creeping scales now covered his shoulder. By the strange feeling as he twisted his back, he went cold as he realized the scales were now laid across his spine.

"Why, ne'er in my long reign as captain have I seen such a hasty transformation. It's almost as if ye were destined to crew aboard the _Dutchman_," Jones added with a salty grin.

"Or perhaps I was destined to replace _you _as its captain," James snapped hotly. "Did you take that into consideration, Jones? That by killing me, you sealed your own fate as well?"

The crewmen murmured unhappily as he inwardly winced at his bold words. But he was tired of this game. If he was going to be flogged, he wanted to get it over and done with.

The captain's smirk slowly faded, his ghastly face now forming into a simmering scowl.

"I run a disciplined ship, and ye have broken my rule of law. Conspiring with the enemy and releasing prisoners against orders."

James released an amused snort, followed by a stiff grunt when a cold, damp, tentacle-finger wrapped around his jaw. Jones whispered unpleasantly into his ear.

"Ye should be grateful yer aboard _my _ship, Admiral. Yer master, Lord Beckett, would see ye hanged by the neck rather than dole out a few paltry lashes."

James wasn't sure which left a more unpleasant taste in his mouth: Jones' slimy touch, or Beckett being referred to as his "master." Either way, he breathed a little easier when the cursed captain released him, this _thump-clank_ footsteps receding a few feet away.

"Anything to say for yerself, boy?" Jones asked, his tone sharp with mirth. "Any last words of defense or pleas for forgiveness?"

The laughter of the crew rankled him, and it was for that reason he blamed his brash words.

"If I was given the choice," James spit out as he looked over his shoulder, "I would do it again in a heartbeat."

"Ah," Jones sighed with pretend surprise. "Funny ye should say that, considering not all would feel the same. Miss Swann, pardon me, _Captain _Swann, left ye here without a second thought. Such a shame. Ye sacrificed yer life for her, and she didn' so much as look back. Ye would die for her, and ye _did_ die for her, and still she'd rather be wedded to a blacksmith's apprentice. Rather to be poor and destitute than married to you, eh, Admiral?"

The lick of the whip would have hurt less than what James felt now. He could hear the amusement in Jones' voice as he knew precisely the effect his words was having on him. And he didn't stop there.

"By the way, it is a strange twist of irony, and I'm so gladdened to have the opportunity to tell ye this. But, the man who killed ye? His name is Bootstrap. Also known as, Bootstrap Bill. Also, also known as, William Turner… Senior."

James' eyes widened in direct proportion to the grin he heard in Jones' words.

"Oh, aye. Ye were murdered by William Turner's father. His own blood turned on ye, and yer dearly beloved could not have cared less."

He knew Jones had to be lying. And yet… there was a truth there beneath the surface. The captain was not the sort to lie to cause wounds. No, for him, wielding the truth as a weapon to cut his enemies down, now _that_ was his brand of cruelty. Beckett had said so himself when Governor Swann had accused them all of lying regarding Elizabeth still being alive.

_Jones is merely cruel, while I am perhaps guilty of the sin of omission._ Indeed, he proved that time and again. Beckett had promised to return him his life, and instead, he had gifted James a gilded set of golden chains to wear round his neck. In life, and in death.

"Are you going to stand there and talk me to my grave," James said quietly, "or are you going to get on with it?" At this point, the whip was much preferable to the torment of listening to Jones mock the mockery that was his life.

For one agonizing moment, no one spoke. The only sounds that interrupted the silence were the waves licking against the hull, and the sails gently straining against their ropes. When James heard footfalls, he glanced over his shoulder to see the bosun holding the tool of his punishment: an old, rotting cat o' nine tails.

It was the largest James had ever seen—definitely _not_ naval standard issue. He turned his head forward and stared blankly at the tarnished wood of the mainmast, clenching his fists as he tried, and failed, not to tense every muscle in his body. He knew this would only make it worse, but his traitorous limbs would not listen to him, remaining taut and trembling as he waited for the first lash. Surely sensing the strain, the two crewmen holding onto his arms also tightened their grip.

"I think twelve lashes will suffice. Begin."

Jones had barely given the command before James heard the whistle through the air. There was a sharp crack as thin rope met flesh, and fire licked down James' back in several molten strips. He pressed his teeth together so hard he feared they would break, but he had managed to not make a sound except for his fast, labored breathing.

_Whistle. Crack. _Blinding agony.

James felt hot liquid trickle down his back. His eyelids were pressed tightly together, shutting himself into darkness to endure the torment alone. He forced the unpleasant thoughts from his mind, the ones surrounding Elizabeth, and focused on the physical pain. It was a white-hot agony, pure as fire, and it washed away everything else.

As the third strike brought tears to his eyes, James realized in a sort of twisted way, he deserved this. He did not feel like a man being punished unjustly. He did not regret freeing Elizabeth and her companions, but that was not the crime for which he was truly being punished.

He was being punished for the crime of being born. For not protecting his mother from his father when he'd been a boy. For not defending Eddie against his father's cruel accusations. For endangering and losing most of his crew for nothing more than his arrogance. For betraying Elizabeth and handing Beckett the sole means for him to control the seas.

How many innocent men had died because of his actions? Beckett may have ordered Governor Swann's death, but James' hands were covered in his blood.

_I had nothing to do with your father's death._

Lies. Nothing but falsehoods. When had he become a deceiver as well as a betrayer?

The fourth lash was different. It was not just deeper—James could actually_ feel_ something tear from his body, and when he looked down between his feet, he saw why that was so. Dark green scales, spattered with blood, lay on the deck. He was being struck so hard the scales along his spine were being flayed, taking bloodied strips of skin with them.

The fifth lash made him briefly lose consciousness. He knew this because when he became aware again, the two sailors holding him in place were now holding him up so he wouldn't collapse to the deck.

The sixth lash is when he broke his oath not to make a sound. It was a low groan, cut off before it could continue, and he was in so much agony he could barely focus or form cohesive thought.

The seventh and the eight strikes were beyond anything he could have ever imagined, and he did scream then. Oh, how he screamed. But it was on the ninth that a low, broken sob escaped his lips. He didn't have the strength to scream anymore, so only a low, mournful sound left his body. He tasted copper in his mouth.

James waited for the next miserable blow, the next whistle and crack of the whip. He could feel rivulets of hot blood down his back, scales in little pools of crimson lay at his feet, and all he could do was pray it would stop. Deserved or no, he could bear this unearthly agony no longer.

He waited, breathing as hard as a horse that had been run too hard by a cruel master, but the hit never came. He slowly became aware of the fact someone was yelling, quite angrily in fact, but he couldn't identify the voice. James forced himself to focus, and he finally recognized Ona's heated tones. He had completely forgotten she was there. Had she been forced to watch the entire bloody spectacle?

_"__You will kill him!"_

Jones gave a low chuckle.

_"__Kill_ him? No, Miss Ona, I do not intend to kill him. Just cause him to wish he were dead more than he already does."

James could barely remain upright, relying more on the cruel hold of the crewman than on his own strength. So when they released his arms, he fell forward onto his hands, gasping as the torn skin of his back moved and stretched over bloodied muscle.

But the sound of his noisy breathing did not overpower the gasp that rose from the crew. He looked up at the two crewmen to see they did not look at him, their gazes focused on events behind him. Their expressions were a mixture of awe and fear, and James, thoroughly confused as to what was happening, turned to look over his shoulder.

Ona was gripping the bosun's wrist in her hand, staying his arm mid-swing from bringing the cat down again. It was not the fact that she had managed to stop the blow that was so shocking, though that too was surprising, but the thing that was now happening to Jimmy Legs himself.

From the point of physical contact between her hand and his wrist, the sailor's skin began to change.

His mutilated, crusty, tarnished flesh was falling off of his body, like a tree being stripped of its bark. Underneath lay smooth, tanned skin. Unblemished by curse or affliction.

His face, sparsely bearded with dark hair, emerged from beneath its previous twisted coverings, all the way down his arms and chest. The progression stopped at his waist, because at that point, Davy Jones had stalked forward and grabbed Ona around the neck with his clawed arm.

He squeezed her between his pincers, causing her to release Jimmy Legs and dig her fingers into the hard carapace of his limb, her eyes wide as she gasped for air.

_"__You!"_ snarled Jones accusingly. _"I know what you are!"_

Somehow, James managed to rise to his feet, forcing his trembling legs to hold his weight. He took one step forward, and then another, but Jones' men must have snapped out of their shock, because they grabbed him by the arms and held him in place. He tried to shake them off but was too weak to succeed, so he focused only on the captain and Ona.

Jones brought his face close, staring into her eyes with a look of disgust James had never really seen before, even when Beckett ordered him around like a personal servant.

"Yer one of _hers_," Jones hissed, his facial tentacles squirming in barely-contained fury. Ona merely glared at him, but she was no longer struggling for breath, so James assumed he had opened his pincer just enough to allow her air. When she didn't provide a response, he let out a snarl.

"Yer one of Calypso's!"

The murmur that rippled through the men told James these words had some kind of significant meaning, though what they could be was completely lost on him. But when he caught some of their superstitious mutterings, James understood a little better of what was going on.

_Sea ghoul. Devilfish. Water banshee._

Despite everything James had seen and endured, this was a little too much for him to swallow. He'd heard the stories since he was a boy, about the sea creatures who looked like beautiful women and could lure sailors with their voices and their lips, dragging innocent men to the bottom of the sea.

Ona was strange, he freely admitted that, but she couldn't possibly be—

"Yer one of her creatures, aren't ye?" Jones growled, the fury of Hell in his eyes. "_Admit it!"_

"And you're the man who betrayed her heart," she responded with deadly calm. Jones' face twisted into something profane, and he must have squeezed because Ona began to scratch at his claw again, her eyes wide as she made a terrible gasping sound.

"I should cut out yer tongue for that," Jones crowed, pulling her face even closer. "And then every other part of ye, and send the pieces to Calypso with my regards."

"Do… what you must," she gasped out. Even though her voice was breathless, it was steady and unafraid.

But Jones did not cut out her tongue, nor did he squeezes his claw and separate her head from her neck. The captain just gave her a curious look. His eyes narrowed, suspicious as his gaze flickered between her eyes, and then his expression opened with the gesture of discovery.

"Calypso abandoned ye. Didn't she?"

The flicker of emotion on Ona's face betrayed her answer, even if James couldn't quite understand the question.

"Ah. That is quite tragic, is it not?" Jones said, his words dripping with mock sympathy. "Shameful when a mother neglects her children. But she has not just abandon ye and yer sisters, has she? There is something… different about ye."

Jones peered at her more closely, as if she was an especially complicated puzzle he couldn't quite figure out.

"Diminished and faded. Ye are not as ye once were. Is that why ye were aboard that ship instead of in the sea where ye belong?"

A dreadful smile grew on his face, one that was quite bitter to James' surprise.

"Did the Brethren Court hobble ye as they did yer Mother?"

Ona's expression closed into something hard, her eyes shining with the force of her anger.

"Your arrogance will be the death of you, Davy Jones."

The captain scowled at her, but she was not to be deterred. James tried to move forward again, to do something, anything, to stop what was happening, because he knew her well enough at this point to recognize a certain look in her eye that meant she was about to do something reckless.

When she spoke, James knew he was right simply by the look on Jones' face.

"The veil between worlds has grown thin. The living can now see the dead, and the dead the living."

Her voice was low and grim, but enticing, and James found he could not pull his eyes away from her face.

"Creatures of the deep awaken from their restless slumber. Storms grow more violent and destructive with every season. The signs are everywhere. The Mother of the Waters will soon be set free." Her face drew as close to Jones as possible, trapped in his claw still. James had to strain to hear her final words, and when he heard them, they sent a chill down his spine.

"And you… will face your final judgement."

With a bellow full of rage and hate, Jones threw Ona to the deck. She hit the ground hard, rolling across it several feet before coming to a stop. Her expression was breathless and pained, but still determined, even when Jones pointed at her and roared, _"Grab and hold her! Bosun, ready the whip!"_ He jerked his head in James direction and sneered, "It looks like you've been granted a reprieve, Admiral."

_"__N-no!"_

His denial was choked, barely uttered through the pain he pulled into his lungs, but Jones did not bother to give him a response. James was helpless to do little more than watch as Maccus and the spine-faced crewman dragged Ona to the middle of the deck, stripped off her red waistcoat, and ripped the back of her linen shirt. Her exposed pale skin against their grim surroundings was a startling sight.

But it was nothing compared to what followed. Jimmy Legs wasted no time in applying the cat to her skin, and soon her back was marred with deep, red lines, blood weeping like tears and staining the back of her ripped shirt crimson.

The men didn't bother to hold James up this time. He sunk to his knees, wishing each lash was against his own body instead of hers. But Ona never uttered a sound. Not once. Even when a strip of skin was ripped from her on the final lashing. Three in all. Nowhere near his nine, but the damage was still horrific, and she didn't have the benefit of cursed scales to protect her.

_"__Throw them back in the brig!"_ Jones ordered when the grisly deed was done. James never thought he would be so relieved to hear the words, knowing that their current torment was temporarily over.

So, too, was Jimmy Legs' temporary reprieve gone. James saw his features once again monstrous and buried under shells and hardened coral.

As they were dragged back to the doorway that would lead to the brig, James caught a glimpse of a man standing on the quarterdeck. A man in a dark coat and hat, untouched by the curse of the _Dutchman_. It took him a moment, but then James recognized him. Beckett's lapdog.

He turned away from Ian Mercer, who was watching him with a dour expression (_How much had he seen? How much had he heard?),_ and Jones gave him a wicked smile as he passed.

"With any luck," he said in an airy tone, "Miss Ona will embrace her true nature and devour ye down to yer bones. Even men such as us can't come back from that, Master Norrington."

The heartless laughter of the crew rang in his ears long after they had been tossed mercilessly back into their prison. James remained unmoving on the cold, unforgiving ground, unable to even open his eyes as his battered body gave out. Exhaustion weighed on his limbs and thoughts like a heavy blanket he could not break free of.

Strange, swirling images faded in and out of his consciousness. Visions of drowning sailors, crimson tides, and the creatures that caused them. Women, but not truly women. Beautiful, deadly, enticing beings that would strip the flesh off a man down to his marrow.

Somewhere in James' mind, he was faintly aware that he could possibly be in great danger. If Ona was what Jones claimed her to be, then he was an easy meal, practically laid out for her to consume if she were so inclined.

Instead, he heard a curious noise. _Tearing._ What was being torn? Him? Something else? No, not him. A sensation across his back. Across his… wounds? James tried to lift his eyelids, so heavy and encumbered, and he managed to flutter them half-open.

Ona was kneeling by his side, strips of white cloth laid across her lap. He was sure he was hallucinating, the delusion a product of his agony, but her soft touches felt real enough, like a soothing balm across his tortured flesh.

_Why?_ he wondered as his eyelids drifted shut again, his mind sinking toward the blessed relief of sleep. James didn't know the answer, and there was nothing he could do given his current situation, so he relinquished all control… and released a silent prayer that a mermaid could show mercy for a man who had brought her so much misfortune and pain.


	19. Two Devils

_**Thank you for all of your comments and reviews! Hearing all of your theories on whether or not James will replace Jones as captain has been really enjoyable. Don't worry, you'll find out the answer before the end. ;)**_

* * *

Will heard the uneven gait of the dread captain long before he saw him.

Cutler Beckett offered him a cube of sugar for his tea, which he accepted with a grateful nod, and still he could hear Davy Jones' approach until it stopped right behind him. By the sound of the slight scuffle, Jones had most likely knocked aside some poor marine coming through the doorway.

Will could practically _feel_ the animosity radiating against the back of his head.

"I cannot be summoned like some mongrel pup," Jones snapped, his temperament clearly just as inflamed as the last time Will had seen him.

"Apparently you can," Beckett answered, apparently nonplussed at the captain's anger. A ghost of a flicker crossed his lips, before he tipped his sugar tongs at Will and said, "I believe you know each other."

Will turned in his seat just far enough to give Jones a smile before turning back to the table to continue stirring his tea. Jones gave an amused chuckle.

"Come to join my crew again, Master Turner?"

Will paused as he brought the tea to his mouth.

"Not yours. His." He again went to drink he tea but then remembered Jack's parting words. "Jack Sparrow sends his regards," he added.

"Sparrow?"

Jones sounded genuinely bewildered, an expression Will was sure didn't happen very often. _Leave it to Jack, _he thought with wry amusement.

Will turned to Beckett, his question perhaps a little too sincere as he asked, "You didn't tell him?"

Beckett decided not to answer, giving them both a somewhat tired look, so Will turned in his seat to gleefully recount the tale to Jones himself.

"We rescued Jack from the Locker, along with the _Black Pearl."_

Jones took a moment to digest this information before stalking forward, slightly leaning over the table as he glared at Beckett.

"What_ else_ have ye not _told _me?" he demanded while glaring at the smaller man.

Will sipped his tea. _Delicious,_ he thought.

Beckett gave that same tired look to Jones, as if he had already grown weary of this conversation.

"Yes, let us discuss information not shared, shall we?" the governor of the EITC said with a brief smile devoid of anything approaching friendliness. "About certain persons aboard your vessel… which you neglected to disclose?"

Will looked over the rim of his cup as the conversation had just become decidedly more interesting. Jones made as if to walk away, but Beckett added:

"No? All right then, I shall fill in the blanks for you."

He set his cup of tea on the table, folded his hands neatly in front of him, and looked up at Jones with that same ghost of a smile.

"Mister Mercer informed me of your failed coup. He also told me what happened to poor Admiral Norrington. How your crew took it upon themselves to murder him and throw his body overboard."

Will blinked.

"What?" he asked, rather dumbly. "Norrington? James Norrington?"

He hadn't thought about Norrington in weeks—they had figured he'd been killed by Jones' men trying to lure them away on Las Cruces. Of course, when they'd heard Beckett had the heart they'd put two and two together and realized Norrington had tricked them with his_ noble sacrifice. _But after rescuing Jack from the Locker, dealing with Elizabeth's distance, and all of the trouble with Sao Feng, he hadn't given Norrington a second thought.

And now the man was dead?

Jones ignored Will's question, instead staring at Beckett with cold anger in his eyes.

"The admiral liberated _my_ prisoners, including Miss—apologies, _Captain_ Swann, and then helped them escape aboard Sao Feng's ship. Mister Turner dealt with that traitor as all traitors are dealt with upon _my_ ship."

Will nearly choked on his tea.

"Yes, and you did so without _my _authorization," Beckett responded with a cool look. "Just as you dumped Norrington's body into the sea without my authorization. And then your crew had the audacity to storm the captain's quarters in a bid to take back the chest. What say you to that failed escapade, Captain?"

The two glared at each other while Will was still trying to digest all that had been revealed. Norrington was killed by Will's father's hand? After he had helped Elizabeth escape? Elizabeth was a _captain?_ What else had happened that he didn't know about?

Apparently, quite a lot.

"No? Nothing? All right. Let us add," Beckett said, tone clearly annoyed with Jones, "that you decided to go on a little side adventure against Mister Mercer's instructions when you had been expressly ordered to recapture the _Empress_."

Jones, who had wandered a few feet away during Beckett's scolding, sharply turned back and said, "I'll tell ye the same thing I told yer hound. James Norrington returned _from the dead_."

Will_ did_ choke on his tea this time. He pounded on his chest to cough up the hot liquid, still not quite sure he had heard correctly.

"I felt it the moment his soul returned to this world," Jones said with an agitated twitch of his head. "The ship had accepted him as part of the crew, and the _Dutchman_ demanded her course be changed in order to retrieve him!"

"It's a ship, Jones, not a willful woman," Beckett sighed, his impatience clearly waning.

Will, meanwhile, was dumbfounded. Norrington was… not dead? Or had died but was now alive? And part of Davy Jones' crew?

_I'm gone for two bloody days…_

"I am at a loss, Jones. You have put me in a difficult position, and I am sorely tempted to relieve you of _your_ position." Beckett rubbed his temple as if a headache had bloomed there. "Please, give me a reason why I shouldn't."

"Because the _Dutchman_—"

"Yes, yes, must always have a captain," the governor interrupted him, waving his hand in dismissal of the words. "I have half a dozen men who could take your place right now. Ones who will obey my command and have my implicit trust, unlike a certain current captain of the _Flying Dutchman_."

Beckett gave Jones the unnerving, faint smile again, but Jones didn't seem especially alarmed at the idea of being so easily replaced.

"Ye won't do it," Jones in a quiet voice, "because it would take yer men too long to gain the loyalty of the crew and the ship. And time is something ye do not have."

Beckett briefly raised his eyebrows, conceding the point. But then with a sly smile he added, "I'm not the only one running out of time, if the mermaid on your ship is to be believed."

Will sputtered into his tea, spilling it down the front of his waistcoat. Beckett gave him a fleeting glance, but Jones had eyes only for the EITC governor.

"Oh, yes," Beckett said faintly, stirring his tea before picking up the cup and taking a cautionary sip. "I know all about her. Did you really think you could hide anything from me, Jones? Especially something of that magnitude? Honestly, I'm curious."

When no answer was forthcoming, Beckett dropped his falsely pleasant tone and went back to his commanding one. "I want the both of them. On this ship. Tonight."

Jones turned his head in that odd, reptilian way, and glared at Beckett with his full animosity.

"They are my prisoners!"

"It was not a request," Beckett responded. His voice was calm as it always was, but there was a hint of warning to it.

"Perhaps we could come to some sort of arrangement," Will interrupted, his tone almost cheerful. Both Beckett and Jones turned to slowly look at him, their expressions blank as if they'd forgotten he was even there. Perhaps they had.

"Why is he even here?" Jones asked in irritation as he looked back at the governor. Beckett displayed that faint ghost-smile again.

"Go on, Mister Turner. I'm listening."

Will gave him a smile and dipped his head in gratitude.

"I propose a sort of… trade-off. Someone that Jones wants, in exchange for, say, Norrington being released into your custody."

Will didn't know anything about any mermaids, but if his father had somehow killed Norrington because he had helped Elizabeth, Will owed it to him to secure his release from servitude above the _Dutchman_. He knew Jones wouldn't release his father, but perhaps Norrington could be spared that terrible, hellish fate as a crewman for all of eternity.

Beckett looked thoughtful while Jones looked harshly displeased.

"No!" Jones finally snapped, seawater spitting from his lips. "James Norrington's soul belongs to the _Dutchman!"_

"You have not heard what I am willing to give you in return, Captain," Beckett said, suddenly all politeness and respect as he got to his feet while stirring his tea again. Jones glared at him suspiciously, at least until his next words were spoken. And then the cursed captain just seemed at a loss.

"I believe you're familiar with a person called… Calypso."

Will watched Jones' expression transform from stunned, to an odd kind of brittle, to looming anger.

"Not a person," Jones disagreed in a low tone as he walked to Beckett's large, rotating globe. "A heathen god."

_So, he confirms it. Gods and mermaids. Splendid._

"One who delights in cursing men with their wildest dreams, and then revealing them to be hollow and naught but ash. The world is well rid of her," Jones added with curt finality.

"Not quite so well, actually," Will interjected, raising his cup to his lips as he pretended not to notice Jones' predator gaze fall on him. He made a sound of satisfaction at the delightful taste of his tea, much more enjoyable now that he wasn't choking on it.

He put down his cup and added, "The Brethren Court intends to release her."

Jones looked from Will to Beckett, stunned once more, and then snapped, "No! They cannot!"

Will watched in fascination as Jones' face tentacles began to writhe in agitation, and he admitted he was impressed by Beckett, who stood near to Jones and didn't seem to be bothered in the slightest by the squirming appendages.

"The first Court promised to imprison her forever! That was our agreement!" He stalked forward, tentacles in full motion now, but Beckett simply looked up at his towering form and said coolly:

_"__Your_ agreement?"

Jones immediately backed off, looking rather contrite as his appendages went still.

"I…" He turned away from Beckett, his voice oddly hesitant. "…showed them how to bind her. She could not be trusted. I… She gave me no choice!"

An epiphany struck Will so hard he felt positively thunderstruck.

"We must act before they release her!"

"You loved her," Will said softly.

Jones snapped his head to glare at him, and Will knew he was right. He recognized too well that particular kind of anguish to mistake it for anything else.

"She's the one," he added, remembering the silver crab music box on top of Jones' organ. The same silver crab locket that Tia Dalma wore around her neck. "And then you betrayed her," Will accused, his tone hardening as whatever fleeting sympathy he'd had for Jones vanished.

"She. Pretended. To _love me!"_ Jones snarled as he stalked toward Will, his face tentacles once again writhing in distress. _"She _betrayed _me!"_

Will knew a man in denial when he saw one, even if said man was… less man and more monster. He took a deep sip of his cup and then got to his feet, looking up at Jones with his eyes narrowed.

"And after which betrayal did you cut out your heart, I wonder?"

The cursed captain moved, and for a moment Will thought he might try to disembowel him with that nasty claw of his. But Jones simply slapped the tea and saucer out of his hand. Beckett stared at the mess with a slight frown, and then continued to drink his own tea.

"Do not test me," Jones threatened, his tentacles looking as if they wanted to strangle Will.

"I hadn't finished that," Will said in answer. Jones had the most murderous stare Will had ever faced.

"You will free my father," Will added, his voice contemptuous and with a warning of what would come to pass if Jones did not comply. He walked around Jones, headed toward the giant, spinning globe, and said to Beckett, "And you will guarantee Elizabeth's safety. Along with my own."

"Your terms are steep, Mister Turner," Beckett responded evenly. "We will expect fair value in return."

"That is where the prisoner exchange comes in," Will answered with perfect calmness.

"There is only one price I will accept: Calypso, murdered," Jones spit with venom and hate.

"That's entirely up to the effectiveness of your fleet and how quickly you can catch up to Jack," Will said, tracing his fingers along the surface of the globe down the west coast of Africa. "Calypso's aboard the _Black Pearl_," he clarified when Jones simply stared at him. The captain's expression went wide with shock.

"Jack has sailed the _Black Pearl_ to Shipwreck Cove." He turned back to the globe, curiously poking one of the measuring tools with his finger.

"And with you no longer aboard her, how do you purpose to lead us there?" Beckett asked in that quiet way of his, one that could be mistaken as simple politeness if one did not know the man.

Will's finger slipped off the instrument and it sprang back up again. When he didn't answer, Jones made several threatening steps in his direction, and Beckett just waited, staring at him with those cold, calculating eyes. Will waited for the most dramatic moment and then reached into his pocket, plucking Jack's black compass from its depths and holding it up triumphantly.

"What is it you want most?" he asked the Company governor. Beckett responded with that muted smile which spoke volumes to Will.

Jones snorted and stepped forward, unimpressed.

"That does not resolve our disagreement over the ownership of James Norrington's soul. And if you want the devilfish so strongly, Lord Beckett, then I want recompense!"

Beckett gave him a questioning look and asked, "Why lay claim to her at all? What is this creature to you? If what Mister Mercer told me is accurate, she could present a legitimate threat to your crew."

Jones' tentacles flickered with agitation, but seemed to calm after a moment as the dread captain snapped his head to the side, glancing away from them.

"She is… that is to say, devilfish and others of their ilk were created by Calypso many ages ago, as a means to punish men who attempted to conquer the sea. Men not unlike yerself," he added with a slight sneer in Beckett's direction. "What ye call _mermaids_ are nothin' more than sea monsters with a singular purpose: to be the bane of men. They are Calypso's brood. Her… children. They can be trusted no more than she!"

This last was spit with vileness and seawater, causing Will to raise his eyebrows. Now he had a better idea of what Jones truly wanted, and he put the rest of the puzzle pieces in place.

"When considering how much this… mermaid is worth to keep in your possession," Beckett said in a low, unamused tone, "consider into your calculations the fact you lost me the _Empress_, and therefore, cost me the value of claiming one of the Pirate Lords."

"What I am proposing, is this," Will interrupted before the argument could escalate further, walking forward with his hands clasped behind his back, all business. "Jones wants Calypso dead, but he also wants Jack to serve on the _Dutchman_. Meet both of those conditions and I'm sure he'll have no issue with handing over your prisoners. Admiral and… mermaid alike," he added with a skeptical smile. Will didn't feel an ounce of sympathy for Jack at the moment. Nor did he care much about heathen gods and mermaids. All he wanted was his father and Elizabeth safe, and he would make whatever insidious deals he had to in order to make that happen.

Beckett smirked so faintly that Will almost couldn't see it.

"As you said, Mister Turner, they are _my_ prisoners. I have a right to them no matter what Jones wants or how he feels regarding the matter."

Jones stepped forward, his icy eyes focused on Beckett.

"Swear that you will destroy Calypso and I will give you the devilfish tonight. But Norrington is_ mine_." Before Beckett could argue with him further, or perhaps decide to simply order his heart be shot and his successor chosen, Jones added, "If I handed the treasonous admiral over to ye, what would ye do? Fit him for the hangman's noose?"

"As is my discretion," Beckett said with an annoyed tilt to his voice.

"Of course," Jones responded, uncharacteristically differential. "But why give him a swift death when he can stay imprisoned aboard the _Dutchman_? Forced to remain in the brig until he eventually loses all sense of himself, and then join the rest of the crew to suffer for a lifetime of hard labor and unending servitude?"

Will stiffened at Jones' dire description of life above the _Dutchman_, his thoughts immediately flying to his bound and cursed father. Jones gave him a sly look out of Beckett's field of vision, knowing exactly the wounds his words had inflicted.

"Your proposal is… intriguing."

"Aye, and I didn't tell ye the best part."

Beckett raised an eyebrow, obviously untrusting of Jones' languid tone.

"Oh? And what would that be?"

Jones smile was as devious as it was insidious.

"Norrington… has developed a fondness for the devilfish."

Will blinked. So did Beckett, apparently equally as surprised.

"A fondness?" he asked as Jones slowly walked around him, the two eyeing each other like equally deadly predators.

"When the_ Dutchman_ brought down the ship that had pulled his lifeless body from the water, the devilfish was already aboard. Part of the crew, apparently. I was… ignorant of her true nature at the time, and was simply going to cut her throat, but Norrington _begged_ for her life. _Swore_ he would serve me willingly if I spared her."

Jones' smile as he recalled the memory sent a shiver down Will's spine. Suddenly, and maybe for the first time ever, he felt a notion of sympathy for James Norrington.

"And then, when I had the admiral flogged as punishment for releasing the prisoners, the devilfish intervened, earning the remaining lashes herself. It seems _she_ has developed a fondness for _him_ as well. Yer Master Mercer will be able to confirm this," he added with a casual turn of his head.

"Get to the point, Jones," Beckett said with flagging patience.

"The point, Lord _Governor_," Jones said with exaggerated emphasis, "is that with the devilfish in yer custody, Norrington will not only be forced into submission, he will also torment himself with the knowledge that she is yours to do with as ye please. And that he alone is responsible for her dreadful fate."

Beckett appraised Jones with raised eyebrows, as if seeing him in a different light.

"I underestimated your propensity for cruelness, Captain."

_As did I,_ Will silently agreed. It was even more of an incentive to free his father for Jones' merciless grasp, knowing the malevolent machinations that went through the captain's mind.

"I accept your terms," Beckett suddenly announced. "Calypso dead and Jack Sparrow handed over to your custody, in exchange for the mermaid tonight, and for James Norrington's ongoing punishment for a time… indeterminate."

Beckett held out his hand and Jones stared at it, then smiled and shook it with his strange, tentacled appendage. Beckett did not so much as flinch, and Will got the impression, despite their vastly outward differences, they were very much alike.


	20. You Will Regret Me

_**The next couple chapters are more chill in terms of action, but there's fluff/comfort/angst, so if you enjoy that you're in for a treat. i apologize for the tortuous slowburn.**_

_**Also, soft james is too much**_

* * *

James Norrington still hadn't awoken.

Ona didn't know what to do about that particular problem, but the latticework pattern of cleaved skin and bloodied scales on his back was now covered by strips of cloth torn from the bottom of her hem. There were enough layers of her dress that she could use quite a bit of it for wound dressing.

But still, despite her ministrations, he remained unconscious.

Ona's own skin was torn and bloodied, but there was nothing to be done as the wounds were out of her reach. So she simply hunched forward, tried not to move too often, and closed her eyes while leaning her shoulder against the wooden column as she sat on the floor. But rest was_ also_ out of her reach, considering every time she pulled in a breath, pain radiated across her back.

Franklin had never used flogging as a punishment aboard his ship. For most of his captaincy, it hadn't been necessary. The crew had adored him and would have followed him to the ends of the earth without a word of complaint. Any man who disobeyed orders or caused disorder among the crew was dropped off at the next port, minus some of his stipend.

For the most part, it had worked well. It was only when Davy Jones began to ravage the seas, causing decent sailors to seek a better life on land, that flogging had seemed a possible necessity. But still, Franklin wouldn't resort to the whip. He wouldn't even carry one aboard.

_Do you know why I refuse to give my men a taste of the lash?_ Franklin had asked her after a particularly difficult day dealing with the crew. When she'd responded that she didn't know, he had removed his waistcoat and pulled off his linen shirt. Ugly, misshapen scars crisscrossed his back, old and faded but still clearly visible.

At first, Ona could do no more than stare, abruptly reminded of how fragile human life was. Franklin had been no exception, as much as she had wished it were so. Then she'd demanded to know who had done this, her blood boiling with the desire to snap the neck of the one responsible.

_This was long before your time, Ona,_ he'd responded with a slight smile, as if knowing quite well the dark thoughts running through her mind. _I was merely a boy._ _They'd not even used the man's whip on me. They had a small cat, one for small sailors. And it still left its mark. A permanent reminder of what I survived, lest I should forget._

Ona watched the slow rise and fall of Norrington's back, listening to the soft sound of his breaths. His golden waistcoat lay nearby, while the large, navy blue broadcloth now covered the upper half of his body. After the crewman had brought the clothing down from the deck and dumped it into the cell, she'd covered him up, concerned about the chill of his skin.

She didn't think Norrington _could_ die, not from a flogging, anyway. But the result of merely three lashes left her in a great amount of discomfort, each breath beginning the pain anew. She imagined nine lashes would leave her just as insensate, even with her high tolerance for pain.

There was also more than the lashes to consider. The dark green scales had grown across his neck, peeking above the white cloth he kept knotted around his throat. She'd considered removing it, but decided to leave it be. It might help keep him warm, at the very least.

Ona shifted her gaze from the back of his neck to his hair. It was a pleasant dark brown color, somehow soft-looking despite the fact it had been exposed to seawater and sweat, and tied back with a black ribbon with tips edged in white.

_Edged in white…_ just like Franklin's hair ribbons. It was one of his.

She was not prepared for the pain that radiated through her chest, a physical ache so strong she turned her head toward the wooden column and pressed her forehead against it, hoping the physical pressure would hold the agony in her heart at bay.

It didn't work, and soon something wet spilled down her cheeks. Ona brushed her fingertips across her face and looked at the water on her fingers.

_Tears._ She'd seen them before, sometimes on the face of sailors as they reunited with their families at port. But this was not a thing that happened to Ona. Not once. And now… here they were. Warm saltwater gifts to show for her grief.

"I half expected him to be a pile o' bones by now."

When Ona's head snapped in the direction of the voice, she saw Davy Jones appraising her with grim interest beyond the bars of her cage. She hastily wiped away the dampness from her face, praying that he hadn't seen, but by the raised curiosity of his hairless brow, she suspected he had.

"Nothin' but bones, the meat stripped clean and the marrow sucked dry. And yet…" Jones tilted his head to the side, a curious motion that seemed more animal than man. "…Ye spared him. Even tended his wounds. Why?"

The question sounded genuine enough, as if he would like nothing more than to understand her process of mind. Ona simply glared at him, not trusting him by a hair.

"James Norrington is a traitorous English dog who betrayed his friends at the first sign of regaining his so-called honor," Jones said in a mocking drawl, pacing a few steps in front of the cell bars. "If he could turn ye over to the Company to save his own skin, I have no doubt he would."

The cursed captain stopped pacing and turned toward her, slightly leaning towards the bars as if in conspiracy. His eyes were so pale they were almost luminous in the dim light.

"Why do ye spare him? Out of a sense of misguided mercy?" He chuckled. "How many men have ye dragged to the depths of the sea? If all the lives ye have claimed were counted and tallied, how high would the bones pile? _Mercy_," he mused, spitting the word as if it were a bitter drink. "Ye have none. It's not yer nature."

When Ona still didn't deign him with an answer, he slowly straightened to his full height and gave her a withering look. "Or perhaps… perhaps ye are no more than a weak, mortal woman, after all."

"Why are you here?" she finally asked, her sharp words meant to convey anger, but instead they simply sounded tired. Jones gave her a cold stare in return before finally dragging his icy eyes elsewhere, staring across the brig.

"Calypso is close."

Ona froze. Hope flickered in her heart, not daring to take hold on the chance Jones was lying, merely toying with her.

"She is being held on a ship called the _Black Pearl_. Ye were correct—there are plans for the Brethren Court to release her."

Her bewilderment transformed into triumph, a fire in her chest burning with the promise of revenge.

Jones did not fail to notice her change in mood, and he did something that made her heart skip a beat. The cursed captain passed right through the bars of the cell, standing directly in front of her.

Ona quickly rose to her feet, but had to lean against the column when the pain in her back caused her legs to tremble. She somehow held upright and looked up into Jones' face, refusing to flinch or drop her gaze when confronted with his malevolent glare.

"Do not lose yerself to smugness just yet," Jones spoke in a low, unpleasant tone. "Yer Mother has been trapped for millennia and has grown no more sensible during her years of imprisonment. Who do ye think will taste her wrath first?"

He gave a vicious smile, already knowing the answer and eager to share it with her.

"My wager is on the pirates. Which include Master Norrington's former friends and once-betrothed. Next, she will turn her vengeful eye to me and anyone aboard the _Dutchman_."

Jones' face changed for a brief moment, his expression… not as harsh. Almost human. Then he did something she could never have predicted—he raised his tentacle hand and brushed it against the side of her cheek in a gesture that was almost affectionate. Paternal.

It reminded her too much of Franklin.

Ona turned her head away in disgust. His hand dropped from her face after a moment, and his tone became hard and cold.

"Perhaps she will spare ye, but she will have no such mercy for the man at yer feet."

Ona turned her gaze down to Norrington's unconscious form. Could he be right? Would the Mother of the Waters take her revenge on him? She turned back to Jones, denying his words even as she was afraid they were true.

"She won't touch him. He is my charge."

Jones released a bitter laugh, but it sounded surprised too, as if he had not expected her answer.

"Yer charge, is he? Well, Miss Ona, when ye celebrate Calypso's return, ye also celebrate the death of yer _charge_."

He leaned forward, his face much too close, but she refused to be intimidated. Refused to cower before him. And yet, his words still chilled her blood.

"And it's not just his physical form that is in danger. We are bound to the _Dutchman_, body and soul. If this ship is destroyed and sunk to the bottom of the sea… then we go with it."

Jones leaned back again, giving her a slightly disgusted look. "Ye will be free, but yer precious admiral will suffer for an eternity. All because he had the luckless destiny of dying on my ship. Do ye feel unending joy for yer Mother's release now?"

Ona felt her chin tremble despite her best efforts to have no reaction at all.

"You are monstrous," she spoke in a harsh whisper. Jones grinned, but there was no mirth to it. It was brittle and sharp like a sea urchin's spines.

"Calypso is the monster. _I_ am simply a creation of her lying heart. Much like poor Master Norrington. Left tah die by the woman he loves. Forever bound to a cursed ship and destined to suffer for his foolish sentiments. The both of us are even the victims of Beckett's endless, ravenous ambition."

He paused, his head slightly tilted as if listening to something only he could hear, and then his grin widened.

"Isn't that right, James?"

And suddenly, Jones wasn't looking at her at all—his eyes were focused downward near her feet. Her racing heart told her not to look, but she did anyway, following Jones' gaze to find Norrington awake, his eyes open and blank of emotion.

Jones chuckled deep in his chest, and with a lingering cold smile in Ona's direction, he turned and walked through the cell bars, continuing on until he vanished into the barnacled bulkhead.

Reluctantly, Ona turned back to the formal admiral, and saw his unblinking stare had not changed. She didn't have the faintest idea what to do, nor how much damage had been done by Norrington overhearing their words, but she felt it was her responsibility to do _something._

So she carefully knelt next to him, holding her breath as the skin across her back stretched in agony, and then breathed again as she sat on her heels.

"Norrington?" Her voice was hesitant, small to her own ears. He didn't respond. For a moment, she was gripped with the sudden fear that he was dead, and she didn't pause to think about her actions before she reached forward and grasped her fingers around his shoulders.

He flinched away from her, hard, and his voice came out a broken rasp.

_"__Don't."_

Ona snatched her hands away as if he had burned her.

"Just… don't."

Norrington buried his face in his arms and refused to look at her.

In hindsight, she should have known this was coming. But it still didn't stop her eyes from stinging.

Ona shoved the hurt away, mercilessly and with practiced coldness, and angrily wiped at her eyes to stop them from tearing. She was still raw from her grief, she told herself, and it was making her overly emotional. What did his opinion matter anyway, and why would his rejection be surprising? Franklin's unconditional acceptance was the exception, not the rule, and truly, had she expected Norrington to be any different?

She sat there for a good while, oscillating between anger, worry, hope, and anger again. Finally, she grew tired of that as well, and decided to occupy her thoughts with something else.

"I need to check your wounds," she announced to Norrington where he still lay, unmoving and silent. She didn't receive a response, whether out of an unwillingness to speak or because he was asleep, she didn't know. She didn't much care, either.

"If you can curb your revulsion of me long enough so I may check the bandages," she said, her voice slightly wavering with the anger she couldn't quite bury, "I can finish quickly and we can both be done with each other's company."

Norrington stirred, lifted his head from his arms, and he gave her a rather stupefied expression.

"What?"

Ona wanted to snap at him, her patience already worn to a thin thread. But instead, she took a deep breath. "I said, if you can curb your revulsion—"

"No, no, I mean…" He took a moment to seemingly collect himself and his words, and said, "I meant… why would I feel revulsion towards you?"

Now it was her turn to feel dumbfounded. And then the anger arose in her again.

"You know _why_," she said pointedly. His brows furrowed in an expression she took to mean he still didn't know what she was referring to. "I need to remove your coat," she said as he opened his mouth, interrupting him from whatever he was going to say, which would no doubt make her angrier.

Norrington still looked at her in that odd way, as if she were a code he was trying to decipher, but he leaned onto his left side so she could pull out the coat from where she had tucked it under his arms. After the coat was entirely removed, she got a good look at the blood-soaked strips of cloth. There was barely any blood on the coat, indicating that he had not continued to bleed, and she took that as a hopeful sign.

At least, until she began to remove the dressings. Her hands froze at the sight of what was revealed underneath.

"What?" he asked, possibly alerted by the abrupt stillness of her hands. "What is it?"

"I'm not… sure," she said, her tone vague in the hopes she wouldn't make him panic. And there was plenty of reason to panic. Dark green scales covered every line, every wound that had once been inflicted across his back. And most alarming of all, along his backbone was a row of protrusions with webbing in-between.

Dorsal fin spines.

"And why is that?" he asked, his voice fraught with tension.

"Well…" Ona paused, not sure how to delicately state it, until she remembered something called Good-News-Bad-News. Franklin had deployed this tactic on many occasions in order to tell the crew something they didn't wish to hear.

It _usually_ worked.

"There is… good news and bad news," she said slowly. "The good news is, you're no longer bleeding and I see no signs of infection."

"And… the bad news?" Norrington asked, turning his head just far enough to see her. She met his gaze and quickly glanced away, wondering how Franklin handled the "bad news" portion so cheerily.

She tried the same tact, and even as the words came out of her mouth, she realized the cheerful tone had been a mistake.

"You are no longer in danger of succumbing to your wounds, because your wounds are now covered in scales."

Norrington stared at her for a long moment, his sea-green eyes darkening with each passing second. Then he pushed himself off the ground, grabbed his coat from off of her lap, and put it on with jerky movements as the tension in his voice ran tight and boiling.

"Wonderful. Simply splendid. I suppose that's one way to take care of the problem, isn't it? I'm no longer injured and in pain, but do not fret, I'm simply in the process of turning into a _monster_."

An unseen force struck the middle of her chest, aching so fiercely she found it difficult to breathe.

"Oh, yes," the words left her lips before she could stop them. "That must be a truly terrible fate. Because who in their right mind would want to become a _monster_. Death is clearly the preferable option."

Norrington turned to stare at her, his expression changing from anger to confusion, and then to something that could have been guilt. But Ona was too agitated to discover what it was—she turned away from him, crossing her arms across her chest, wincing as the movement pulled at her ragged, exposed skin.

She heard Norrington suck in a sharp breath. Ona realized she had accidentally given Norrington a full view of her wounds, still untreated, but she didn't care about that either.

What was there to care for? What did she have left?

_He's gone… and he's not coming back…_

A small noise escaped her. It could have been a gasp, or it could have been a quiet sob. Either way, she hadn't meant to make it, but it was too late to go unnoticed. She felt his fingers on her shoulder, probably meant to be a comforting gesture, but it felt like hot iron brands against her skin.

Ona twisted away from his burning touch, stumbling and retreating until her back hit the bars. The crusted metal tore at her wounds, and she flinched away from that, too. Having nowhere to flee, she stumbled again, her hands gripping her upper arms as she tried to fight off the agony. From her torn flesh, from her heart, it was everywhere, threatening to crush her, destroy all that she was and had ever been.

_It doesn't matter it doesn't matter nothing matters—_

"Ona, _please!"_

She could hear Norrington, pleading and entreating, but she shook her head as if to dislodge him. She was now backed into a corner with her arms folded across her stomach, as if she could bodily hold herself together while her world was in the process of shaking apart.

_"__Don't touch me,"_ Ona snapped, her breath harsh and labored as she glared up at him.

Norrington backed away a few inches, holding his hands up. "I'm not going to hurt you," he added unnecessarily.

"You know what I am," she said, her voice low and almost feral. She waited to see his response, his disgust as he was forced to fully confront the creature before him.

Norrington sighed and glanced down toward his feet, and when he looked up again, she was surprised to see a clear absence of loathing or hatred. His brows were drawn into a heavy line, and his expression was wrought with something she couldn't identity. If she hadn't known better, she might have called it concern.

"Jones seems to think you're a… a mermaid," he said, stumbling on the words a little as they came out. "Though I wouldn't say he's an entirely reliable source of information."

"You saw what I did to his crewman. The one who wielded the whip," she pressed firmly, irritated that he wouldn't just come out and _say_ it. Say she was a monster. That she was responsible for Franklin's death. That she was an unforgivable, unnatural thing. One who deserved this pain and all the pain to come.

But he didn't say any of those things.

"I saw it, but I didn't understand it," he said, slowly and carefully. He took a step forward, causing Ona to automatically take a step backward, along the wall and away from her corner in order to maintain distance from him.

"But despite not understanding it, there are things I do know. I know you saved my life. I also know you interceded on my behalf twice, once from the _Mariner's_ crew and again with Jones' men."

Another step forward, another back. His words made her heart pound and her hands tremble, and she didn't know_ why_, and she was so vexed she didn't notice the impending wall at her back until it was almost too late. But Norrington reached forward and grabbed her shoulders before she could impale herself against the wall of barnacles.

Instead of trying to break away from him, Ona forced herself to look up and meet his eye. He stared back at her, and at this distance there was no mistaking it now—he _was _concerned. She hadn't felt this fragile in a long time, and she hated how she felt like she might break apart under his fingertips.

"I don't understand everything that's happened," Norrington repeated softly, his gaze never leaving hers, "nor how you can do the things you do, but it doesn't really matter. It doesn't matter whether you're a… a mermaid, or a sea nymph, or whatever it is they called you."

"Why doesn't it matter?" she asked, the words coming out quiet because she couldn't seem to take a full breath, the air stolen from her. In the dim glow cast from the lamps, his sea-green eyes were dark and flecked with candlelight.

"Because after everything that's happened, it's clear to me that I can, and I must, trust you. And… there aren't many people I can say that about."

Ona didn't know what to say, and even if she had, the words would have remained frozen in her throat.

"Besides, have you seen what I look like at the moment?" he said with a small, bitter chuckle. "I'm not exactly in a position to be making any kind of judgements on someone's state of humanity." His smile faded almost before it began, and his expression became quite serious. As if he needed her to understand something very important.

"Ona…" He took a step toward her. The act made her want to move away, to seek space between them, but she stayed where she was. His sudden, intense expression was… captivating. Even if she had had a place to retreat, she didn't think she would have sought it out. Not at that moment, when she felt as if her world was balanced on the edge of a sharp precipice.

"I've seen perfectly ordinary men responsible for some truly monstrous acts," Norrington told her in a voice so soft she could barely hear it. "And they were very much human."

She couldn't look away from him, as if completely entranced by a spell. Norrington watched her closely in return, his gaze shifting between her eyes.

"Do you understand what I'm trying to say?" he asked, his voice earnest but still gentle.

She did understand. She understood he was wrong. But she didn't deny his words aloud, because it was so dangerously tempting to allow him to believe the lie.

So she stayed silent. Norrington gave a small sigh through his nose, but he didn't look annoyed or angry. In fact, he looked… soft. Unbelievably so. And it loosened something hard and jagged inside her.

"What I'm saying is, you're not a monster, Ona."

His words were spoken so confidently and without question, an assertion that she was not, in fact, the thing she really was.

"How can you know that?" she asked, her conscience forcing her to at least make him question this mistake he was about to make. "We're strangers to each other."

An amused smiled edged across his lips.

"We've been flogged by the same whip and imprisoned in the same brig. I believe that makes us, at the very least, friendly acquaintances. Speaking of," he added, his sea-green eyes sparkling with sudden good humor, "I'm going to take a look at those lash marks now. No, I will not take 'no' as an answer, so do not bother to protest."

Ona thought she _would _protest, but strangely enough, found the desire to do so was absent. And so she said nothing, figuring there was no harm in giving him this one small allowance.

_He will regret this,_ she thought grimly. _He will regret ever knowing me._

But even so, when Norrington stepped back and offered his hand, Ona hesitated only a moment.

And then took it.


	21. One Step Forward

_**Another long chapter because i am wildly inconsistent with my chapter lengths. Some more comfort, a little bit of fluff, and then some angst because Ona doesnt trust like that.**_

* * *

Norrington led her back toward the middle column of the cell, guiding her gently by the shoulders, and she went without protest or resistance. Ona was tired, and in pain, and maybe still a little dumbfounded at the fact he knew what she was and was still willing to be within five feet of her, let alone touch her.

"Would you like to sit?" Norrington asked, all politeness. She answered by first kneeling and then sitting on the ground, tucking the shirt of her dress under her legs as she winced. At this point, everything ached, she was exhausted and all she wanted to do was sleep in a hammock. Or even better, a bed. Her bed on the_ Mariner_, preferably, but then she remembered it would be at the bottom of the sea by now.

_Dangerous territory. Tread elsewhere, lest ye be swallowed whole._

Ona leaned her shoulder against the wood column, fighting off her weariness as she looked back at Norrington to where he was now crouching behind her. She caught a glimpse of his expression as he examined her back—his brows were knit so intently a crease appeared between them, and there was a naked vulnerability in his sea-green eyes. But as soon as he noticed she was watching, he schooled his expression into something more pleasant and less troubled.

"It needs dressing, but I expect it to heal as long as it doesn't become contaminated. We don't have anything in the way of medical supplies, but…" He looked at her curiously, his brows raised as he asked, "Where did you get the dressings for my bandages?"

"Here," Ona responded, grabbing the hem of her dress as she prepared to begin tearing off strips. Norrington put his palms over her hands to stop her, a rather peculiar look on his face.

"No, no. That's all right. There's no need to… decimate your clothing further."

Ona just stared at him as he cleared his throat and removed his hands from hers, his expression now a tinge flustered. Just when she began to think she understood him, Norrington would act in a way that completely baffled her. She had known Franklin for over three decades and thought she understood men, for the most part. Either she didn't know them very well at all, or Norrington was an especially strange man.

"What will you use for bandages, then?" she asked flatly.

Norrington looked at her thoughtfully for a moment before glancing around their stark cell, as if that would provide insight, and then he saw his golden waistcoat on the floor. Instead of picking it up as she expected, he looked down at himself and then pulled apart his broadcloth coat and examined his linen shirt. He made a noise of discovery and untied the cravat from around his throat, appraising it with satisfaction.

"It's probably the least filthy thing I'm wearing, not that that's saying much," he said, a self-deprecating expression touching his lips, "but I think it'll do."

The cloth was still fairly white, and made of a thick, soft-looking material. Expensive cotton, or possibly silk, if she had to guess. He ripped it into several pieces, and for the first time, Ona truly wondered how badly her skin was damaged.

"This will sting," Norrington spoke as he picked up the first piece of cloth. He paused and looked up at her, dark eyes watching her closely. "May I?"

His kindness was far more unnerving than if he had been brash or crude. Those things she was used to from sailors, especially of the caliber Franklin had been hiring recently. Unfortunately, thinking of Franklin filled her chest with pain, but it also reminded her of his words.

_The admiral is a gentleman. Which means he will have special concern for the welfare of a lady_

But she was no lady, and Norrington knew that. So why was he treating her with such delicate politeness? Because she merely looked like a mortal woman?

He was still waiting for her answer, so she nodded her permission and turned away from him, needing to look anywhere other than at those sea-green eyes.

"Your… er, your hair… Would you be able to pull it forward for me?"

His words, spoken with awkward hesitancy, caused her to look back over her shoulder, and she saw his expression was almost apologetic. Frowning, she looked down at her hair and realized it was lying across her back. She usually wore it pinned to keep it out of the way, and she hadn't paid enough attention to it to realize it had come loose.

Ona gathered her hair at the top of her neck and pulled it forward, immediately regretting doing so when the strands of hair stuck to her wounds pulled free. She slightly hissed through her teeth but made no other sound, closing her eyes tight as she attempted to will away the stinging sensation across her back.

The stinging only intensified as Norrington laid the first strip of cloth across her skin. She grimaced and he mumbled an apology, knowing it must hurt despite her silence. But then then the stinging faded to a soothing ache—the cloth was soft and absorbent, and it felt good as her wounds were gradually covered and protected from the humid air.

"I wanted to… apologize for what I said earlier," he said after a stretch of silence, where only the creaking of the ship filled the space between them.

"Yes?" Ona asked tiredly, still using the pillar for support. Her eyes were closed and her mind was focused on the feather-light touches he made across her back. She would have barely felt him at all if it wasn't for the raw sensitivity of her damaged skin.

"In regards to… referring to myself as becoming a monster," he said haltingly, awkwardly. "I know it was not especially sensitive, given that… well…given that…"

"I am a monster?" she finished for him, her tone purposefully blank.

"No!"

She opened her eyes at his quick objection, though she did not look at him. She found she _couldn't_ look at him, not when discussing this particular issue.

"No," Norrington repeated in a lower tone, as if struggling to rein in his emotions. "That's precisely the impression I did not want to give, that I believe you to be some kind of… of monster. Because as I've said, you're not."

Ona stared straight ahead through the bars of their prison without truly seeing them. There was a question, lingering on the back of her tongue, and she knew if she didn't voice it now, she wouldn't find the courage to do so again.

"Then why did you flinch away at my touch?"

Norrington didn't respond for a moment, long enough for her to wonder if he ever would. She curled a hand around the cloth of her dress, suddenly regretful she had asked, and she half-hoped he would choose not to answer.

But then he finally said, "It wasn't… you. I know it appeared that way, but it wasn't. It was Jones. Him and this bloody damned _ship_." His voice was harsh, almost lowered into a growl, and Ona couldn't help but find the sound somewhat… enticing. But then he was speaking again, and she forced herself to focus on his words and not on the annoyingly alluring qualities of his voice.

"But it's more than that. Jones said he and I are similar in many ways. It struck a chord deep within me." He sighed heavily, as if the words cost him a great deal to say. "In the moment, I didn't want to accept what I knew in my heart was true. And it made me lash out at you, for which I am deeply sorry."

Anger stirred within her—not at Norrington, but at Jones for manipulating him, twisting his fears and anxiety to suit his purposes. Norrington didn't deserve to be a pawn in Jones' wicked game.

"Davy Jones thrives on the suffering of others," she said in a tight voice, staring down at the tarnished wood under her fingers. "Perhaps you share commonalities, perhaps you don't. That's not the point. The point is you are _not _Jones." She said this last with firmness so he wouldn't doubt her sincerity. "But the idea of convincing you that you are brings him enormous satisfaction. You will torment yourself wondering if it's true. And he knows it."

Ona felt a smile cross her face, a small bit of satisfaction at the thought that she could see through Jones in a way that Jones probably couldn't see himself. "The irony of it is, his cruel words only have an effect on you precisely because you're _not_ like him. You are capable of kindness where he only understands cruelty and what he can gain by it.

"So," she said, dipping her head slightly as she realized, with a small amount of embarrassment, just how much she had spoken in such a short frame of time, "in conclusion, I don't believe you have much to worry about in that regard."

After a brief pause, Norrington chuckled, and it was an unhappy sound.

"You make it sound as if I am some sort of decent fellow."

Ona looked over her shoulder at him, pointedly glancing down at his hands which were currently tending to her wounds.

"Certainly seems that way to me."

It was amusing to see how quickly his cheeks flushed, his lips pressed together as if to curb them from smiling, but it still reached the corners of his mouth anyway.

"Could you, lean forward a little? I can't quite reach these lower gashes," Norrington asked, his face still flushed but his voice sounded pleased. Ona did as he asked, leaning forward until she could brace her elbows against her thighs. It stretched her skin painfully so she slightly curved her spine inward to relieve the pull on her wounds.

"Better?"

"Yes, thank you."

The levity of the moment faded into heavy silence, and Ona sensed the gaping pit of grief that always waited for her to slip, hovering somewhere beneath her. So she turned her thoughts to something they could both concentrate on that might improve their dire situation.

"You said you were stationed on this ship before?"

She felt his motions hesitate halfway through laying down a strip across her lower spine.

"Yes. Not long, perhaps a few days." He continued placing the rest of the strip on her wound, his voice grim as he spoke. "I was tasked with keeping Jones in line, and then I received orders for us to hunt down the _Empress_. Sao Feng's ship. When we caught up, I ordered my men to fire upon the vessel, and apparently Sao Feng was killed in the attack."

"I remember," she said. "You told me some of this when you were in our brig."

It wasn't the only thing she remembered. She remembered how their roles had been completely reversed, and _she_ had been the one bandaging _his _wounds. All in a ploy devised by Franklin to gain information from the admiral by a less direct means.

Ona hadn't minded being useful in that way. She wished she could do it now, come up with a way to engineer their escape, but Franklin was the schemer. The one who could see a plan of action when no one else could. It's what had made him such a great captain, and combined with her ability to navigate through any waters, they had been an unstoppable pair.

Or, they had been. Once.

"Yes," he continued, more softly now. "And it was then I discovered the new captain was Elizabeth Swann."

"Your previous fiancée," Ona stated, remembering this part too. When he didn't respond, she looked over her shoulder to find his expression distant and sad.

"We had been engaged for only a short time," he said, his voice subdued. "Elizabeth had agreed to my proposal to save the life of… someone she cared for. I don't blame her for it, truly, but it's clear our engagement wasn't an engagement at all. More a contract between willing and unwilling parties."

"Yet, you died for her," she wondered aloud, recalling the vicious words Jones had said to him. "Even after breaking your engagement. You gave your life to save her."

Norrington went still. She silently cursed herself, realizing too late her misstep.

"I'm… sorry," she said, her fingers once again tightening around the cloth of her dress. "I'm just trying to understand."

She was surprised by the low, humorless chuckle he gave.

"There's no understanding it, really. Love is strange that way."

Ona looked over her shoulder at him, wondering at the wistfulness in his voice, but he kept his eyes focused on his task. So she stayed like that for a moment, just watching as he finished laying the last strips along her lower back. There was stray strand of hair, curled against his temple, and she had the sudden urge to reach out and gently tuck it behind his ear.

His sea-green eyes finally focused on her face. "Why do you ask?"

There was an odd feeling in her stomach. It was churning and tense, as if she was staring over the edge of a towering cliff. The white-capped waves below lapped at the rocks, calling to her, waiting to consume her if she slipped and fell.

She pushed the distressing feeling away, and realized she had been doing that a lot recently. Especially while in the company of a certain admiral.

"I was hoping you would know a way we could escape our cage and find a way off the ship," she answered truthfully. Norrington's expression changed rapidly. His eyebrows rose in surprise, and then lowered again as he gave a small, almost embarrassed smile.

"Oh. _Right._ Well, that makes sense. Yes! Yes, we should… should do that." He cleared his throat and sheepishly added, "Find a way to escape."

Ona had the strangest urge to do something truly egregious: she wanted to _smile_ at him. Thankfully, the unwanted sensation faded as she realized there was a truth they were both not speaking, but was too obvious to ignore. She may be able to leave the ship, but Norrington could not. Now or ever. Not unless something about his circumstances changed, those circumstances being the ship that had laid claim to his soul.

If there was a way to free him somehow… Surely there was a way. Ona faced away from him again, needing to focus on the problem, and she couldn't do that with his distressingly green eyes staring at her.

How could they separate the _Dutchman's_ hold on Norrington? It seemed very much like a curse, one Mother had cast herself if the stories were to be believed. But there had to be a way for cursed sailors to be freed.

Ona held some remnants of her power still, and she remembered how it felt to grab hold of the man flogging Norrington and force the aberration from his body. Or at least, partly. Her rage had only fueled her powers for a short time and she hadn't been able to completely, or even permanently, cleanse him of the affliction.

So, she knew one thing. She could perhaps temporarily relieve Norrington of this curse, but not for more than a few minutes. Not exactly helpful in finding a permanent solution.

Mother could herself lift the curse, but would she? Doubtful. Not after what men had done to her so long ago. Ona knew all too well what that felt like, to have her power stripped away, leaving her helpless and terrified, and her desire to exact vengeance on the man responsible had not slackened over the decades.

Oh, yes, Ona would find him again, and when she did, she would take that profane sword of his and drive it through his black heart. But not before she killed Jones. Jones was going to die for what he had done to Franklin, to her home, and even to the _Mariner's _crew.

The question was, how did one kill an immortal? If she could just find a way to escape this cell—

Suddenly, there were fingers on the back of her neck, lightly brushing away her hair. She flinched so hard from the unexpected touch that she felt something along her lower back _rip._ The accompanying pain made the air rush out of her lungs as if she had been struck in the stomach.

"I—I'm so sorry," Norrington apologized hurriedly, "I just wanted to—there is bruising on your neck and I…" he trailed off and then said in a breathless tone, "_Damn,_ one of your wounds reopened. Just… one moment, I'll set it right."

Ona attempted to calm her heartbeat, scolding herself for overreacting as she took a steadying breath, digging her trembling fingers into her skirt. Norrington was trying to help her, and while she consciously understood that, it was still difficult to remember. Hard to get used to. Would she ever grow accustomed to it? It might not matter if her life was measured in hours. Days, at the most.

"There's some bleeding but the cloth should hold for now. Again, I apologize. I wasn't thinking—"

"It's _fine,"_ Ona said through her teeth and the pain, interrupting him so he would stop apologizing. "You… said there was bruising?"

"Yes. Ah, here, along the side of your neck," Norrington explained. She almost flinched again when she felt a light tough along her neck, but she managed to remain still. His fingers felt cool and pleasant against her hot skin.

"But it's strange looking. Almost as if it was made by a serrated edge."

"Or a claw," she added. He didn't seem to notice the distracted quality of her voice, nor how the tiny hairs on the back of her neck were standing on end. Even the pain from her lashes was subdued with her mind wholly focused on the sensation of his fingertips on her skin.

"…or that." He cleared his throat and removed his fingers. It was like a spell had been broken, and she blinked rapidly.

"And… how is your head feeling?"

"My head?" The perplexing question managed to bring her mind back into focus from where it had wandered.

"The, uh… the back of it. Where you were struck."

_Oh._ She had forgotten about that, what with everything else that had happened. She raised a hand and felt along the back of her head, wincing at the lump she felt under her fingers.

"I, er… never got the chance to apologize for that, as well," he said. The abject nervousness in his voice made her want to look at him, but she thought better of it and kept her eyes forward.

"Unless you were the one who knocked me unconscious, I don't see the need for an apology," she responded, her hand lowering to lightly rub at the place where he had touched her neck.

Eventually, Norrington's lack of response _did_ make her turn her head to look at him, and he looked particularly miserable, his eyes averting from her gaze.

"You… knocked me unconscious," she said dully. He met her eye then, his expression full of apology.

"It was never my intention to harm you," he explained earnestly, "I'm not sure what happened."

Ona narrowed her eyes, and Norrington apparently could tell that answer was not going to fly, because he said, "It was as if, one moment I was myself, and the next I had… had picked up the board and hit you. I didn't realize what I had done, until it was over."

"Oh."

The anger Ona had begun to feel faded just as quickly. Norrington looked up at her, his eyes questioning.

"Yes, that… is to be expected, I think," she responded, trying to be as delicate as she could. Which was something she was decidedly_ not_ experienced in. "It seems to be a part of the curse laid on Jones and his men. You will start to… lose yourself as the ship's hold becomes more complete."

He sighed heavily, his expression changing into something painful.

"I was afraid of that."

Norrington looked down at his hands again, glaring at them as if they couldn't be trusted. In all likelihood, that was an accurate assessment, or soon would be.

"Are you finished?" she asked in an attempt to pull him from what were clearly unpleasant thoughts by the look on his face.

"What?" he asked faintly, looking up at her blankly.

"The dressings," Ona clarified while trying to pull up the edges of the collar of her torn and bloodied shirt. Or rather, what was left of it.

"Ah, yes," he said, quickly glancing away from her. "I believe so."

It was incredible that _this_ was the moment the admiral had decided to become bashful at the sight of exposed skin. Jones' crew had ripped open the back of her shirt for the whipping, but at least they had removed her red waistcoat beforehand so it was still intact.

She could cover herself with it and spare Norrington's _delicate sensibilities, _she thought wryly.

Or, that was the idea. Unfortunately, the waistcoat was fitted, and as she tried to slip it over her arms and button the front, it was soon made clear the vest was either going to dislodge the makeshift bandages, or it would actually reopen her wounds. She sighed sharply and released the fabric, tossing the unyielding cloth to the floor.

"Here."

Ona looked back to see Norrington remove his navy-and-gold coat from around his shoulders. He looked like he wanted to place it on her, but thought better of it and asked, "May I?"

She stared at him for a long moment, gave a lingering look at the coat, and then nodded before turning her gaze back to the bars. She felt the weight of the firm cloth as he carefully placed it upon her shoulders. It was much heavier than it looked, but then, she remembered how heavy he had been when she'd grabbed ahold of his arm and swam for the _Mariner._

At the memory, Ona cast a fleeting glance in his direction, but Norrington wasn't looking at her—he was rising to his feet. She followed him with her eyes, studying him closely as she saw something alarming. His linen shirt was clinging to his skin from the result of the humid air, but the skin beneath wasn't its usual pale color. It was dark, the shape of scales making a visible impression through the damp fabric.

And what was worse, she could see they were up to his jawline now, covering almost the entirety of his neck.

There was something else she noticed about him too, now that he wasn't encumbered by the large coat. His shoulders were still quite broad, but the rest of him was lean and long-limbed. Even considering the bulkiness of his uniform, he seemed to have lost weight since she had found him. Floating, cold, dead in the water.

Dead… but now very much alive. Once, she had thought his resurrection had been her doing. That somehow, the curse was weakening and her powers were returning. She was wiser now. His return from the dead was due to the _Dutchman's_ claim on him, and nothing more.

Ona wasn't his savior. She was a courier. Meant to deliver him into misery.

Norrington didn't notice her stare; he walked over to where his golden waistcoat lay on the ground and he picked it up, slipped it over his shoulders, and began to button up the edges until he realized most of the buttons were missing. Ona remembered seeing them ripped clean off by Jones' men as they had hastily disrobed him for the flogging.

He looked down at the sorry state of his clothing, chuckled with an edge of bitterness and mused, "By the time this is all said and done, I fear I may be completely without a stitch to wear."

His smile faded when he saw her expression. Ona couldn't imagine what it looked like, though it probably wasn't joyful as she had been morosely considering their prospects.

She was surprisingly glad they were on nearly friendly terms with each other, but in the end it didn't matter, because Jones would never let her leave the ship alive. And Norrington was trapped even more than she was, his very soul tied to the fate of the ship around them.

Even if they found a way to escape the brig, Jones would always be able to find him. Norrington would never be free. And in that moment, Ona found that to be an entirely intolerable statement.

"Ona?"

He seemed on the verge of saying something that held considerable weight, since he had taken a deep breath beforehand, but was interrupted by a loud clang. Ona jerked her head around to see a group of men enter the hold.

She was immediately on her feet, ignoring the agony of her wounds as she instinctively backed toward Norrington, her fists clenched in anticipation of battle.

But then she noticed they were not Jones' crew. They were untouched by curse and malaise, their uniforms crisp white and bright crimson. A man led them, dressed all in black with a face creased in scars and a hard life. He stopped before the cell, a ring of keys in his gloved hands.

"Mercer?" Norrington asked, his voice pitched in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

He never got his answer. The man in black pulled back the cell door, and the men poured inside. Two of them grabbed Norrington by the arms and shoved him against the bars, holding him in place as two more sailors caught hold of Ona.

The first one released her with a scream after she bit into the flesh of his hand. The second was wiser—he slipped behind Ona and put an arm around her neck, pressing down as he cruelly twisted her arm behind her back.

Her free hand clawed at the arm around her neck, but her captor didn't relent, and soon the lack of air and the agony from her whip marks was enough to subdue her. Just as the edges of her vision were starting to recede, the pressure around her neck lifted just enough so she could breathe.

Ona coughed and gasped, too focused on trying not to faint to fight the marine as he began to drag her towards the cell door.

Alone. Without Norrington.

He watched them from where he was still pinned chest-first against the bars, his eyes wild and his face contorting with rage as he shouted, _"Where are you taking her!"_

The man he had called Mercer gave a half-smile so rotten it could have curdled rum.

"Why, fulfilling our part of the bargain, of course."

_Bargain?_ Her heart froze in her chest, and she stopped trying to break free of the man's grip, shock overcoming her.

"Bargain? What bargain?" Norrington demanded, echoing her thoughts as he struggled against his captors.

Once Ona was pulled successfully from the cell, the men holding Norrington released him and retreated. Mercer locked the cell behind them, giving the door a shake to make sure it was secured.

Norrington immediately went up to the bars, wrapping his fingers around them as he glared daggers at the man in black.

"The bargain that keeps you here aboard this vessel, safe in Jones' loving care, while the sea-beast becomes sole property of the Company," the black-clothed man responded. "The mermaid goes but you can stay. Per our agreement."

_Our… agreement?_

"I don't understand." Norrington's confused gaze turned to her face, his eyes widening when he took in her stunned expression. "Ona. Ona, I have nothing to do with this. I swear it!"

She wanted to believe him… but then something Jones had said earlier flashed across her mind.

_If he could turn ye over to the Company to save his own skin, I have no doubt he would._

Jones had been right. Norrington was sacrificing her to save himself. She never should have trusted him. Never. All men were liars and deceivers and she knew this and _why had she trusted him._

Her arm was released and the hold around her neck was gone, but her hands were pulled roughly forward. One of the marines clapped a set of manacles around her wrists, and as surely as the lock clicked into place, so did her heart shut against out Norrington's pleas.

"Go," Mercer said with a jerk of his head. "Lord Beckett is eager to meet his new _pet." _He spoke the last word with cruel delight, but Ona didn't react. It was too much, too quickly, and the shock of betrayal left her feeling hollow and empty.

_He had been so kind… a lie. All a lie._

"Don't do this! Please!" Norrington called after them, his anguished voice lost to the dank rot of the brig. _"Ona!"_

She wanted to cover her ears to block out his cries, each word a painful blow, reminding her how _foolish _she had been. Ona had allowed herself to be compromised. And he had played on her sympathies to stall for time until she could be handed over like some kind of living prize.

Ona was so numb with disbelief that she couldn't even enjoy the night breeze against her hot, damp skin. She was pulled across a gangway spanning the distance between two ships, the second looking almost the complete antithesis to the _Dutchman._ It was sparkling clean, freshly painted, and smelled of lumber that could not have been cut more than a year ago.

Sailors in various uniforms on deck paused when they spotted the odd procession, but she paid them little mind as she tried to collect her thoughts. She was in danger—trapped in exactly the kind of scenario Franklin said was one of the worst possible. Her true nature had been discovered, and she was now in the hands of one of the most powerful men on the seas.

_All because of him. All because of James Norrington._

Ona expected the crewman to take her down to the brig. Instead, they led her toward the aft of the ship until they came before a set of lavish, elegant double doors. There were two men guarding the room beyond, and they reached forward and opened the doors at their approach.

She was led inside, the two marine escorts keeping a firm grip on her shoulders, sparking pain across her wounded skin. But she pushed it down, refusing to show any sign of weakness in front of her enemies.

The men forced her to a halt within a few feet of the room. Ona barely had time to glance around her pristine, elegant surroundings before she heard a soft voice say, "Thank you, Mister Mercer."

The words had come from a man resplendent in fine green brocade and a stark white powder wig. He was much shorter than Ona, and his features were soft and pale from lack of exposure to harsh winds and scorching sunlight. But there was something about his eyes… they held within them a sort of stillness that made her skin want to crawl off her bones.

Mercer came forward, placing something into the smaller man's outstretched palm, and then the man in black left too, along with the marines.

She was alone with him now. His eyes, there was something about them she couldn't pinpoint, but she was so unnerved she physically shivered and wrapped the coat tighter around her arms and shoulders.

_Coat?_

She looked down and saw she was still wearing the admiral's broadcloth coat, draped around her shoulders and over her arms. Ona considered dumping it to the floor, an action of disgust in regards to its owner. But instead… she held onto it tightly, using it as a barrier to shield herself from the unknown dangers ahead.

The small man was in front of her now, looking up into her face with a faint curiosity that made her feel as if she were the one who was small.

"Welcome aboard the _Endeavor_, Miss Ona." He gave a faint smile that made her blood run cold.

"I am Lord Cutler Beckett, and you shall be my honored guest this evening."


	22. Two Steps Back

Lord Beckett examined her, walking a slow, methodical circuit, taking in her rough appearance. Even wearing what he assumed was Norrington's coat, he was able to see her dress was torn, even bloodied at some places. Her hands remained shackled and limp, and she stood very motionless, her face shielded behind her long, dirtied yellow hair. He was struck by the imagery of an interested shark circling a lost, wayward fish.

The truth was not far off.

Beckett was sure she expected his first few words to be cruel and cold, so when he politely asked, "Are you hungry?" she jerked her head up and stared at him blankly.

"You must be ravenous," he added with a small smile, "after all you've been forced to endure in these past few hours."

Those eyes. Beckett couldn't get past them. They were so intense it was startling, piercing like the tip of a double-edged sword. She didn't answer him, not verbally anyway, but her slightly trembling hands and her pale face told him he was correct in his assessment.

"Jacque!" he called out.

His servant came in from a side room and said, "Yes, sir?"

"My guest and I will take our dinner here." He turned to her and said, "What would you like, my dear?"

She remained silent but her eyes narrowed the faintest bit. Beckett gave her a smile just as slight, and then turned to his servant and said, "Bring a little of everything."

"At once, sir," he acknowledged with a bow, disappearing just as quickly as he had arrived. Beckett gave her a cursory glance before turning to his spirit cabinet, making sure he didn't put his back to her and she remained at her periphery of his vision. He pulled out two small wine glasses and poured a small amount of white wine into each.

"I don't know about you, but I could use a drink," he spoke lightly, feeling in a rather good mood. In such a good mood that he neglected to keep his eye on her, for just a fleeting moment as he focused on pouring their drinks. That was his first mistake.

He didn't have time to so much as breathe before he was grabbed, pulled to the side, and then spun around and thrust with his back against the wall.

Beckett opened his mouth to alert the guards, but she held her wrists at either side of his neck and pressed her chains tight against his throat, cutting off his air and his voice. The sound that escaped was a gurgling gasp, dying before it could reach anyone's ears outside the room.

_"__W…"_

Beckett tried to breathe, tried to speak, tried to force out the word, blinking more as his vision grew blurry. But no matter how hazy it got, he could still see her eyes. Those blue eyes, a storm-born fury, staring straight through him with murderous intent.

He had not felt this weak and helpless in years, and for a breath of a second, he was too terrified to act. But no, he was Lord Beckett, Governor of the Company and representative of the Crown and Empire. He would not die here. Not like this.

_"…__w…ait."_

The stormy eyes did not grow any calmer, but the pressure relieved enough for him to draw in a strangled breath and wheeze out his next words.

_"…__can… h…elp… you…"_

The chains cut hard into his throat as she growled, her warm breath washing over his face. "I don't_ need_ your help."

Beckett was in danger of passing out now. He had underestimated this creature, its desire for violence and death. He never underestimated any opponent or potential rival he faced. How could he have miscalculated so utterly…

_Desire… desire for… everyone desired something… it was just a matter of…_

_"…__Jones,"_ he choked out, weakly.

_…__pressure and leverage._

The chains were taken off of his throat and he drew in a vast gulp of air, his deprived lungs burning and his vision expanding as his senses came to life. He did not bother to rub his throbbing neck—the manacles were still laid across his skin, waiting to once again to put him at her mercy if she was dissatisfied with what left his mouth. He had to be very careful, very judicious with his words.

Fortunately, that was what Lord Beckett did best, as his station and title showed most accurately.

"If you… kill me," Beckett said, still slightly breathless as he spoke, his gaze roaming over her face. Her eyes never wavered, never even blinked, and he fought off the urge to shiver.

"…you will never get to Jones."

"What makes you think I want him?" she asked in a low, deadly voice. Internally, he smirked. The negotiations had just begun, and she had no idea. She was an amateur at best, and Beckett would be able to out-maneuver her with ease.

The only problem was, this game of chest involved pieces with slightly different moves. And if he couldn't figure out their pattern quickly, she would simply overturn the board and end the game by ending his life.

"I am not your enemy… Miss Sharp."

The shock in her eyes was quickly eclipsed by a brief pain, a flicker of sadness, and then anger. Her eyes were like the gathering clouds, and she was the storm, ready to be unleashed.

Beckett could almost sense the chains ready to tighten, so he hurriedly said, "I've met him, you know. Captain Sharp. He was a good man."

The chains did tighten but not enough to cut off his air, and he suspected she might not be doing it on purpose, unaware as conflicting emotions played out in her eyes.

_"__Liar,"_ she hissed at him. The chains shifted with a metallic tinkle, warning him.

"I met with him several months ago at Fort Charles when the _Mariner's Lament_ made port, if you remember," he explained, his voice calm and unbothered, as if they were having a lovely chat over tea. "I never had the pleasure of meeting you, but Captain Sharp came to my office where I offered him a job. To fly under the colors of the East India Trading Company as a privateer. To my disappointment, he declined, but we parted as happy acquaintances. I never bore him any ill will. He was a clever, no-nonsense sort of man, and his senseless death was a tragedy. Is… still a tragedy," he added silkily, never taking his eyes from hers.

She was watching him intently, confusion warring with hatred, but this worked well for Beckett. Confusion would throw her off balance, cause her to hesitate, and any little space she gave him he would ply to his advantage.

"I heard Franklin Sharp had a daughter aboard his ship. I now know you are not his blood relative, but that does not make the grief any less, does it?"

The woman bore her teeth at him as she pressed the manacles, causing him to wince in discomfort, and she lowered her face mere inches from his as she uttered, "You control Jones. Jones killed Franklin. _You_ are responsible for his death."

"Not responsible for his death, no," Beckett corrected, wincing again as the links dug into his skin. "Jones acted of his own accord when he attacked your ship; he wasn't even supposed to be in that region. I would never have ordered an attack on the _Mariner's Lament._ What would I have to gain from it?"

"Then you should have kept a tighter leash," she growled, her eyes glassy and red-rimmed now. "You should have stopped it from happening."

"You are quite right."

She blinked. Backed off a fraction, but still kept close as she studied his face for deception. She wouldn't find any, because one, he was an excellent liar, and two, this was not a lie.

"I should have prevented his death by keeping Jones in line. That… was my failing." Beckett held her gaze, forming his expression into one he knew conveyed his utmost sincerity. "And I should like to make amends if you would give me the opportunity to do so."

"How?" she asked sharply, unconvinced by platitudes alone. He would need to give her a little something more. Add more bait to the hook, as it were.

Beckett sighed, the very embodiment of weariness.

"Jones is… rapidly becoming more trouble than he is worth. His usefulness is coming to an end, and when that happens… I will no longer have need of his services. If you catch my meaning," he added with a small but warm smile. "And when that time comes," he spoke so softly his words didn't go beyond the two of them, "I will find it more than agreeable for you to be the one to end his bothersome existence."

Uncertainty flickered in her eyes. But the chains relaxed. And he knew he had her when they dropped away completely.

_Now,_ he thought with earned satisfaction, _she will be willing to hear what I desire in return, and Jones will truly become a myth that belongs as a footnote in historical texts. All that's left is—_

As if his servant possessed the worst timing possible, which was perhaps true, he came through the doors, carrying a large platter of food precariously in front of him. And in order for him to do so, two guards held the door open for him, and all three of them stopped and stared to see Beckett, pinned to the wall by the rather frightful-looking woman in iron manacles.

His two guards raised their muskets and aimed them towards the woman (which was stupid, so_ so_ stupid, he would have them demoted and transferred immediately), but at least his servant managed to not drop the platter, proving Beckett's staff wasn't entirely incompetent.

The woman pulled Beckett from the wall and wrapped the manacles around his throat from behind, using his body as a living shield between her and the muskets.

_Smart girl._

"Lower your weapons!" he commanded of his marines. They glanced at each other in confusion before lowering the muzzles of their rifles. "Leave, immediately," he ordered them next as the shackles began to tighten around his neck.

"But, sir—"

_"__Do not _make me repeat myself._ Go!"_ he snapped with uncharacteristic shortness. Then added in a softer tone, "Not you, Jacque. You may leave the food."

His servant only hesitated a fraction of a second before moving to the table, laying out the dishes and bowls with surprisingly steady hands.

_Good man. I must remember to give him a pay increase._

The marines were slower to obey, but eventually they did, and he could see their shadows through the glass double-doors, waiting for his signal should he need them. But he doubted he would, even with the woman currently holding his life in her hands.

As he waited for Jacque to finish serving the meal, Beckett remained still, noting with curiosity that she breathed more steadily than he would have imagined for someone in her position. Lesser men had quivered in their wigs from simply having a dull, inane conversation with the infamous Lord Beckett, and she was holding him hostage with chains around his neck without so much as a tremble. He wondered if she had even broken a sweat.

As soon as Jacque had made his exit after giving a hesitant, worried bow, the woman leaned forward and growled into his ear.

"Tell me why I shouldn't kill you right now."

Beckett couldn't help the sigh that escaped him; he thought they had gotten past all this. Perhaps mermaids were a little slower in catching the finer points of negotiation.

"Because if I die, you will be squandering the opportunity to kill Jones. Even if you managed to escape this ship and make it back to the _Dutchman_, which I seriously doubt considering the hostility you would find on both ships, the task of finding and killing Jones would prove a likely impossible task."

After a moment of quiet filled with the sounds of a frigate at sea, the chains were lifted from his throat. She entered his field of vision as she walked around him, coming to a stop directly before him.

Beckett raised his gaze to meet hers, and for the briefest moment, he saw something: a flash so cold and deep he had no doubt she was currently envisioning his death. How she would do it. Perhaps take her manacles and wrap them around his throat, choking him until his heart no longer beat, or perhaps squeezing until his neck snapped and he lay dead at her feet.

And then the moment was gone. She had not acted, because there would be nothing for her after. She would have been shot dead and her desire for revenge would have gone unfulfilled. So, the creature had decided to take the more conservative approach… and that boded well for what Beckett had in mind.

"What proof do I have that you're not lying?" she finally asked, her expression darkened with dislike.

"None. Yet." He gave her a faded smile and indicated the table with a nod of his head. "Perhaps we can discuss it over dinner?"

When she simply stared at him, her expression completely distrustful, he added, "As a sign of good faith, I will tell you exactly how to kill Davy Jones. The _how_ is the most important thing. Without the how, the opportunity won't matter. Jones cannot be simply killed like any mortal man; there is only one way to bring about his demise."

By the brief flicker in her eyes, Beckett knew this was information she was not aware of. He could practically see the acceptance, as reluctant as it was, as it crossed her mind.

"I will hear what you have to say. Nothing more."

Beckett smiled lightly, his good mood restored.

"That's all I ask, Miss Sharp."

The woman held out her shackled wrists to him, an expectant frown on her face. Some of his good mood deflated.

"And you'll remove these," she stated firmly, as if thrusting her hands under his nose hadn't been clear enough. Beckett gave her a tempered look, reached into his pocket, and pulled out the key Mercer had handed him earlier. He unlocked each manacle, and then unlatched them and allowed her hands free.

She cast him a furtive glance, rubbing at her bruised wrists and then turned toward the table.

_Not even a 'thank you,'_ he noted with wry amusement, dumping the manacles onto a side desk before following her.

Two chairs were set across from each other at the same tea table he had dined at with William Turner. If fortune was with him, this conversation would be just as productive.

"May I take your coat?" he asked politely, noting with curiosity how she clung to the coat in response to his question.

"No," she said bluntly. The woman pulled back her chair, her eyes flitting between him and the meal, suspicious of both and wondering perhaps which would kill her first.

In response to her distrust, Beckett gave her a little smile, plucked piece of mango from the fruit dish and popped it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. After he swallowed and showed no signs of convulsion or frothing at the mouth, the woman sat and began to eat with ravenous hunger.

The other items of food could have easily been poisoned, but either she didn't think he was that deceptive, or she didn't care. Beckett gave a silent huff of amusement and took his seat. He placed food onto his plate with slower, less-hurried movements, but he didn't mind her lack of manners or her haste. The faster she sated her hunger, the more agreeable she would be to his demands.

Still, it was surprising how fast she could pack it all away, making him wonder if she'd eaten at all in the last few days. He suddenly hoped she wouldn't eat so fast to the point where she would vomit it all back up again. He frowned at the thought. His cabin had just been repaired and cleaned from the attack by the _Pearl _during its escape—he didn't need to have the floor scrubbed again as well.

But she did not empty the contents of her stomach all over his mahogany floor—she continued to eat (fruit, bread, vegetables, but left the meat and fish untouched, strangely), and only slowed down enough so she could begin asking her questions, full of doubt and suspicion.

"So, you're willing to give me the means of Jones' destruction, and the opportunity to kill him, but you want nothing in return except your life?"

Beckett gave her a small smile and asked, "Is my life not worth enough?"

"Only you can answer that," she said unconcernedly, picking up a slice of honeydew and biting down on the flesh. "But my guess is, no. You want something else."

_Perhaps not so slow, after all._ He leaned forward, opened his mouth as if to answer, and instead called out, "Jacque!"

The servant appeared almost immediately, as if he had been waiting in the wings (and probably had).

"Yes, sir?" He cast a concerned glance at the woman, but Beckett knew he wouldn't say or do anything out of line, especially since the earlier situation had clearly been deescalated.

"Would you bring us a fresh pot of tea?" he said with perfect composure, and his servant further relaxed, knowing his master had everything under control.

As if Beckett never met a situation he couldn't bend to his advantage.

"Yes, sir," Jacque said with a bow, and vanished. Beckett looked back to his guest of honor and had to fight the urge to instinctively swallow when he realized she was staring at him, boring a hole through him, really, with those harrowing eyes of hers.

"To answer your question, yes," he said quietly, "I would like to ask for your assistance in return."

_"__Ask?"_

By the tone of her voice, she knew he wasn't _asking _anything.

Beckett gave a faint smile said, "I would rather have your cooperation willingly than at the point of a sword. This won't work otherwise."

Her eyes narrowed, a surreptitious look crossing them.

"And what is… _this?"_ she said, indicating the vagueness of his statement with a wave of her hand, one which currently held a piece of a plantain.

_How can she still be eating?_ he thought distractedly. Surely there wasn't enough physical space within her to store everything she'd eaten.

His answer was interrupted as Jacque returned with the tea, placing the pot on the table as previously instructed. Beckett preferred to pour the tea himself, especially if he had a guest, because it tended to disarm them. Make him almost likeable, which he knew could be somewhat of a strain.

But he saw she was waiting for an answer, so he gave a brief smile and stood from his chair. He poured her tea first, then his, and asked, "Do you take sugar?"

She gave him a hard look for a moment, pressed her lips together, and looked away.

"Two."

Beckett tried not to smile as he put two sugar cubes into her tea, and mostly succeeded, but it couldn't be helped. There was a certain smug, and very immature part of him, that wished his father could see him now. Governor of the Company, conqueror of Davy Jones, and diplomat to the merfolk.

Of course, he knew his father would never believe him, but it was a tale he hardly believed himself. And yet, here he was.

Beckett took his tea with him and walked over to his map table, stared down at all the charts that lined its surface, and waited for her to follow. She eventually did, because her curiosity won over her clear dislike of him, something he had counted on. When he saw her taller form at the corner of his vision, he indicated the rotating globe that sat directly in the middle .

"This… is what I would ask of you. Your cooperation in charting the waters of the world." He turned his head to look at her, wanting to gauge her reaction. "It is no more or less than what you have been doing for Captain Sharp, according to his men that have now joined Jones' crew. Though what you would do for me would be on a much grander scale."

Her head snapped in his direction, her eyes fuming.

"_You_ are not Franklin."

"Oh, no, no, of course," he rushed to agree, even as he thought,_ I should hope not, given the captain's current status._

"No one is trying to replace Captain Sharp, least of all me," Beckett explained, his voice soft with contrived contriteness. "I was just… hoping since you had done it before, you would be willing to do it again, only this time… you would be doing it for England."

The woman continued to stare at him, perhaps not as openly hostile as before, but considerably a long way from agreeable.

"Which means, if you were to help chart these waters for the good of His Majesty's subjects… it could save many lives."

He indicated the West Indies on one map, and then the entire Atlantic in another, and added, "So many ships are lost in these waters, most of them not associated with any naval fleet. Merchant ships, transport vessels, cargo haulers. Lost in unexplainable, but possibly preventable tragedies."

Beckett turned his gaze to her, softening his features into something earnest and almost pleading.

"You could do a lot of good for a lot of people, Ona."

The use of her birth name, if mermaids were even born, felt strange, a touch too intimate. But perhaps, it had paid off. She was no longer looking at him, instead staring down at the map, and he wavered between remaining silent or adding something else.

He thought, _Oh, why not,_ and put all of his bargaining chips onto the table.

"Quite a lot of these lost passengers, especially on the transport vessels, are women and children. It's always a risk to travel by sea, but the danger does not have to be so great with the aid of someone who knows these waters with intimate, first-hand experience."

He cast his gaze onto the globe as hesitancy formed around his words.

"I… only knew Captain Sharp from a business perspective, but from what I could tell, he was of a moral caliber not seen often these days. I hope it is not too presumptuous of me to say, but I would think… he would approve of this use of your rare knowledge."

Beckett pretended to still look at the large, rotating globe, but very intently watched her out of his peripheral vision. She wasn't looking at him, and her silence seemed thoughtful rather than angry. Or was he hoping for too much? He needed to see her face, look her in the eye, but he couldn't appear too eager, too—

"How do I know you don't simply want the locations of these 'dangerous waters' so you can capture and slaughter the beings who reside there?"

Beckett was quite nearly caught off-guard. That was _precisely _the reason he wanted those waters charted, but he hadn't thought she was perceptive enough to even imagine that could be his agenda. He needed to reassess and reevaluate this creature lest he run into the danger of underestimating her again.

"I have no need to do so," Beckett answered, allowing his gaze to rise to look at her, his brows creased with troubled thought that she would even accuse him of such an unthinkable thing. "Going after these… _beings_ would cause more loss of human life. Which is precisely what I am trying to avoid. No, charting the waters so they can be circumvented is enough."

Her expression indicated she thought he was lying. Which he was, of course, but when someone suspects you of a lie, you give them a coating of truth to better swallow the bitterness of your deceit.

"The Crown has no quarrel with you and your kind," he spoke with a touch of respect. "We simply wish to avoid conflict. And even if we did go to war with the creatures of the oceans, it would not be difficult to see who would be on the losing side. What are ships of mere wood compared to krakens and mermaids?"

Beckett was suddenly worried he had been a bit too earnest in his arguments, but the woman did not look at him. Instead, she was staring straight ahead, out of the window into the darkness of the night.

"And of course, if you agreed, then you would be well cared for. Food, shelter, clothing. I'm sure we could even issue you a stipend if you so desired." He was about to add more when she interrupted him, her eyes still fixated on the windows.

"I could just leave right now." Her gaze was distant, as if she was talking to herself more than him. "Jump into the sea and vanish. You have nothing to offer that I could ever need."

"That's not entirely true, is it?"

Her gaze cast downwards instead of at him, telling him he was quite correct.

"Jones referred to you as a mermaid, but I have yet to see any fins. Why is that?"

The muscle in her jaw twitched, and he knew he had to be very careful here.

"It doesn't matter," she answered, wrapping the coat tighter around her.

"It does in this scenario," he answered, but not unkindly. "My guess is, for whatever reason, you cannot return to the sea. We all face tragedy at some point in our lives, Miss Sharp. I do not know what happened in your past, but you have an opportunity before you. A way to… make the best of your situation and hardships."

The woman said nothing, her gaze once more unfocused. During her silent contemplation, he took a moment to really study her. He would have disbelieved Jones' tales of mermaids if Ian Mercer hadn't recounted the strange story as a reliable eyewitness. And it wasn't just what she had done to one of Jones' men that interested him, but rather the tales of the _Mariner's_ crew before Jones had executed most of them.

_And what a waste,_ Beckett thought in slight irritation. Or… was it a waste? Yes, Beckett had lost a Pirate Lord due to Jones' disobedience, but he had won himself another prize in the process. A way to navigate the seas with ease, a means to hunt down the last remnants of the unknown creatures in the waters, and Jones' replacement…

…all in one tidy, yellow-haired package. All that was left now was to gain her trust, and he knew precisely how it would come to be. It was as if he could see the future, because in a way, it had already come true. This sea creature was not as untamable as the stories would dictate, otherwise this particular one would not have been doing Captain Sharp's bidding.

The _Mariner's_ navigator, Franklin Sharp's false daughter, would become the Company's new enforcer of the seas, with Lord Beckett guiding her as Captain Sharp had once done. Sharp had had the right idea, he had just lacked the ambition and correct sense of scale.

All Beckett needed to do was find a way to fill that role as trusted guardian, gain her loyalty…

…and then she would be_ his._

"And if I say no?"

Beckett's reverie was broken by her question, but he was already prepared with a lie that would nudge her toward path he wished her to take.

"Then we will release you as soon as we can safely make port." He allowed his tone to drop into something mildly disappointed. "But I hope you stay."

The woman slowly turned her head and met his gaze, and for the first time she had looked at him, the blatant hostility was absent. She actually seemed… well, weary, if her slumped shoulders and red-rimmed eyes were any indication.

She parted her lips, which he just now noticed were dried and chapped, and said, "I will consider your words. That is all," and turned away from him, going back to sit at his tea table. She didn't eat.

_Perhaps she's finally lost her appetite,_ he thought amusedly.

"I am gladdened to hear it," he said with what was actual, genuine gratification as he joined her at the table. He set down his half-empty teacup and watched her from across the table.

She was everything Beckett could have ever asked for. There was just one loose end left, made visible by the navy-and-gold coat she would not part with.

"I would have thought," Beckett ventured in a soft, curious tone, "that given the circumstances, you would have asked for provisions to be made on James Norrington's behalf."

"Why would I ask for such a thing?" she inquired in a dull, flat voice—one which was betrayed by hardness in her eyes.

"Well." He cast a brief but pointed look at the coat ensconcing her shoulders. "I had thought the two of you were… on friendly terms. Mister Mercer reported to me what happened at the flogging. And your own former crewmates made reports on what happened aboard the _Mariner_. So I had assumed—"

"You assumed incorrectly," she spoke with a clarity that bordered on snappish.

"I see. My apologies," he said softly, taking a moment to drink his tea. Unsweetened and strong. Just how he preferred.

The woman averted her eyes away from him, her lips set into a line that told him she had more to say on the matter, which soon proved true.

"He made a deal with you, didn't he?"

Beckett furrowed his eyebrows. It wasn't every day that someone said something to him that was actually perplexing.

"I'm not entirely sure what you are referring to, Miss Sharp."

Now she did bring her eyes back to him—those large, depthless, unsettling eyes.

"The deal. The one your… Mercer referred to."

He slightly shook his head, growing even more confounded. Her frustration was evident as she clenched her teeth, causing her jaw muscles to flex.

"Norrington… he traded me. His safety in exchange for me." She hesitated for a heartbeat, her accusatory manner losing its venom as she asked, "Didn't he?"

_So, that's what happened,_ Beckett thought. Interesting. Now he had to decide which was more useful to him. The truth or a lie?

"It's true," Beckett said slowly, slightly bowing his head in assent. "James Norrington has a penchant for falling into disfavor with the Crown. He has also made it a habit to then betray his companions in a bid to win back his honor. This isn't the first time it's happened, Miss Sharp, as I'm sure you know."

The woman blinked several times, a slight crease forming between her eyes, and internally Beckett purred with satisfaction.

"Oh? Did he not tell you?" he asked with feigned concern and even a pinch of pity. "I would have thought… But of course, why would he tell you about his past? It would surely sully your opinion of him, which I doubt is something he would want. He is, after all, at his core… a very lonely man seeking to fill a void that remains perpetually empty."

She wasn't looking at him now, instead staring at the top of the table and the uneaten food. Then she raised her eyes to his, a firmness present that wasn't there before.

"Jones told me Norrington is a betrayer, but I don't believe a word out of his foul mouth. Norrington _died_ so he could protect someone he loved."

"Ah, yes," Beckett said with a breathless sigh, "Elizabeth Swann. He at least told you they were once betrothed, I hope."

"Yes," she responded, narrowing her eyes.

"I am glad to hear he is still capable of some _small_ amount of honesty, at least."

Beckett sat back in his chair, took a sip of his tea, and then set it back into the saucer with a delicate clink.

"You will understand, then, that his so-called sacrifice seems less noble when you consider the fact he was acting out of guilt, not out of a sense of… gallant heroism. You should try some of your tea before it gets cold."

She blinked at his abrupt change in subject, glanced down at her tea, and then brought her gaze back to him with a deeper frown. He gave a light shrug and continued with his story.

"The truth is this. James Norrington deceived Elizabeth Swann and her friends into believing he would distract Jones' crewmen by luring them away. A noble act that, once again, had another agenda. Norrington had stolen from them a particular item of value, one I desperately wished to find. He had also stolen Letters of Marque that were signed by me and would issue a pardon to anyone who signed their name.

"So you see… when he turned up in Port Royal, carrying the heart of Davy Jones in his hand, he had done it to regain his lost title and status, not so he could save his friends. And it is because of these very acts that I have gained control of much of the seas, using Davy Jones, his crew, and his deadly ship."

Beckett leaned forward, his eyes focused so intently on the woman that she couldn't pull away, and seemed equally raptured by the story despite any desire to not hear it.

"And that, my dear Miss Sharp, is how one controls… or kills Davy Jones. There is a chest that contains his literal beating heart. And if you destroy his heart, you destroy the man. It's as simple as that."

It wasn't, of course, but she didn't need to know the part about cutting out her heart and being bound to the _Dutchman_ for the rest of her life. That knowledge could come after, when Beckett had full control over her.

And really, wasn't immortality a small price to pay for vengeance? It wasn't as if he was cheating her out of what she wanted. She would get what her heart most desired, as would he, and all parties would be satisfied.

The woman still hadn't spoken, her expression lost, overwhelmed by the information he had heaped into her lap. Just as intended.

"I _do_ apologize," he said with sudden contrition. "The hour is late and I've kept you awake far too long. You need your rest. How serious are your injuries?"

She blinked and looked up at him, the dazed look still in her eyes.

"What?"

Beckett gave her a soft, understanding smile, as if he knew just how tired she must be. "I ask because I was going to have the ship's surgeon tend to your, ah, lashes in the morning. But if they are causing you pain, I could have him stop by your cabin tonight."

"My… cabin?"

Satisfaction purred in his chest at the tone of her voice. The hostility was gone, replaced by confusion… and a small amount of something else. Very small, but there. The seedlings of hope, buried deep in the soil and waiting for spring to arrive.

Beckett gave her a smile he knew to be one of the few charming ones he could make.

"Of course, Miss Sharp." He chuckled lightly. "Where did you think you would be spending your time aboard my ship? In the brig?"

Her expression indicated that yes, she very much expected to be thrown into the brig for the foreseeable future.

_She really is a pitiful thing,_ he thought to himself, the closest he got to true sympathy for her. As sad as her lot in life was, Beckett hadn't forgotten the way the chains felt against his windpipe. It was something he would never forget.

"Jacque!"

Once his servant appeared, Beckett got to his feet and said, "Please show Miss Sharp to her quarters. I have kept her for long enough."

"Yes, sir. This way, please, miss."

The woman gave him one last suspicious look, but he thought it was perhaps, half-hearted at best. Then she turned to follow the servant.

"Oh, and Jacque?"

They both paused to look at him. Beckett deigned his charming smile once more and said, "If Miss Sharp requests any medical attention before the morning, fetch our medical officer for her without delay. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir."

She gave Beckett such a long stare that Jacque had left the cabin and had to wait for her by the entrance.

"I don't trust you," she said, quite suddenly. Beckett's smile faded, but the sincerity in his eyes did not.

"It's not about trust, Miss Sharp."

He took a step forward, and then another, standing close to her and lowering his voice so no one could overhear them.

"I will share with you a secret. I don't trust… _people._ What I do trust is their motivations. Someone can speak their desires and be lying. But when someone's actions reveal what they truly want, I believe them. I trust intentions, Miss Sharp. Trust actions, not words, and you will understand people better than they understand themselves."

She raised her eyes to his, as a moment before they had been lowered in the vicinity of his coat buttons, and she looked right through him. A small shiver went up his spine but he schooled his face not to show it.

The moment stretched on as she searched his eyes, seeking for deception. He knew she would find none, because the pearl of wisdom he had handed her was genuine. And something he had never said to anyone else.

"I will remember that, Lord Beckett."

She gave him one last cold, lingering look before she turned and walked from his cabin, followed Jacque after he gave her a nod of his head, and disappeared around the corner.

Beckett released the breath he didn't realize he was holding. He made his way over to the liquor cabinet, poured himself a deep glass of brandy, and drained it entirely in one motion.

The burn down his throat, the warmth spreading from his gut, it all helped, but it couldn't completely erase the chilling depths Beckett had glimpsed in her eyes.

* * *

When the man named Lord Beckett had told her she had a cabin, Ona hadn't quite imagined this. She'd imagined a closet, or perhaps a hole in the wall where bilge rats would be her new companions.

But not this. Not a full-sized bedroom complete with a large four-poster bed, an armoire, and a porcelain tub large enough for her to fully submerge herself in.

Ona hated it. She hated everything about this too-clean ship and its too-tidy Lord Beckett. She didn't trust him, and this further confirmed that he was merely using her, but…

_But._ He wasn't hurting her. He knew what she was, and didn't put her in manacles and chains again. She was confined to the ship, surely, but Beckett had offered to take her to port if that's what she wanted.

What did she want? Where would she go if that's what she requested of him? All she wanted was to be back on the_ Mariner_, Franklin alive and whole, gently teasing her while his eyes sparkled and the corners of his eyes crinkled, as they so often had.

She just wanted things to go back to how they were before.

Ona sat on the bed heavily and stared at the nightgown the servant, Jacque, had pointed out to her.

"Just leave your dress outside the door, Miss Sharp, and we'll burn it for you."

_"__No!"_ she had cried. Her dress was torn, stained with blood and brine, but it was _hers_. It was her only connection to Franklin, and she would gouge out the eyes of anyone who tried to take it from her.

Jacque had bowed and said, "My apologies, miss. Would you be agreeable to having it cleaned and mended?"

She had glanced down, saw the blood stains across the knees of her skirt, and decided that wouldn't be such a terrible idea after all.

And now here she was, staring at the white nightgown as if it would suddenly transform into a pile of vipers. Eventually she stood up, walked over to the object in question, and held it up to the candlelight for examination.

The movement caused Norrington's coat to slip off of her shoulders and land on the floor.

Ona stared at the coat for a long moment, and then she turned away and began to undress. Her dress was such a disaster she didn't know how it could be repaired, but she would leave that for a problem in the morning. Right now, all she wanted to do was slip under the covers and go to sleep. And definitely not think about liars and deceivers and all manner of men who wished to use her for their own ends.

After the nightgown had slid over her head, Ona rubbed the soft fabric between her fingers and wondered just how much this had cost. It was made of a finer material than she had ever worn before. Not because Franklin would have objected, but because this type of regalia was impractical for life on a seafaring vessel, and Ona had had no need for it.

Still, it felt nice against her skin. The covers felt even nicer—it was like lying in between the folds of a soft cloud. She should have fallen asleep immediately, lulled by the sounds and motion of a ship. But the ship was a stranger to her, as was the bed, and the nightclothes, and the men stationed nearby.

She did not sleep.

After lying there a long while, simply staring up at the canopy, she turned her head and saw Norrington's coat still on the floor.

Hesitating at first, she left the bed and padded over on bare feet to the object in question and lifted it from the ground. It was stained by seawater, and traces of white brine were all that remained after the saltwater dried. Other than that (and dark stains around the hole through the back), it wasn't actually too dirty.

Without thinking, Ona raised the coat to her nose and breathed in. That feeling of homesickness washed over her again as the smell of the sea flooded her senses. She returned to the bed, coat in hand, and draped it over her body before pulling the covers up. She felt much warmer than before, the chill that had lingered on her skin now vanished, and her eyelids became too heavy to keep open any longer.

Trying her best not to think of the owner of the coat, Ona wrapped her fingers around the heavy material and drifted into an uneasy slumber.


	23. Parlay?

_"You need to be brave, son. There are men out there who are savages, and they want to destroy your entire way of life. They are uncivilized, heathen, thieving, filthy pirates, and when I have gone to a final rest, it is you who will carry on the banner of civility and order, and help the Crown and our allies in the East India Trading Company eradicate their slime from the Seven Seas."_

_―Lawrence Norrington to his young son, James Norrington_

* * *

James made his hundredth circuit around the cell, pacing in agitation as his thoughts ran wild in his head.

What could be happening to her? What _was_ happening to her? What could Beckett possibly want from Ona?

The questions repeated, over and over, but their repetition did not get him any closer to answers. James couldn't even begin to imagine what use she could be to Beckett, but this was the man who had tamed the cursed captain of the _Flying Dutchman _and now used him to terrorize the whole of the Atlantic.

Beckett's ambition was only limited by his imagination, and whatever he was imagining right now would bode ill for Ona.

And that look on her face… James couldn't get it out of his mind. Why had she looked at him as if he had plunged a knife into her chest? Did Ona truly believe that he had betrayed her to Beckett? Even if he'd wanted to—which he didn't—when would James have made such a bargain?

_Perhaps when ye first returned to the Dutchman, mate. Right after ye bashed her on the back of the head. Not that it was your fault, of course._

"Oh, not this again," James moaned aloud.

_As far as she knows, ye sold her off in exchange for yer freedom._

"Do I bloody well look free?" he scowled as he hit the wooden pillar with his forearm in frustration. He waited for his arm to smart with pain, but he only felt a distant, muted ache. Everything was becoming like that now, as if only very strong sensations could reach him. It was incredibly disturbing, and he vowed to not check under his sleeves to see if his affliction had spread.

_But _she_ doesn't know that, does she? Ye could be sauntering on the deck, bollocks to the wind, and she would have no idea whether or not that be true._

The exasperating voice of not-Sparrow had a point, barring his crude imagery. James felt a mixture of exasperation and dread, wondering what lies Beckett could be filling her head with. Even James, who understood men like Beckett very well, had underestimated his capacity for schemes and subterfuge. After all, he had managed to rope the virtuous William Turner into doing his bidding. What chance did someone like Ona have?

_So, are ye gonna sit here for the rest of yer days, feelin' sorry for yerself? Or are ye gonna do somethin' about it?_

He hated when not-Sparrow was right, almost as much as he hated when real-Sparrow was right on the few occasions it occurred. But even if James somehow miraculously escaped his cell, fled the _Dutchman_ and found Ona (all very large _ifs_), would she trust James enough to go with him?

Only one way to know, and that was to escape this damned cell. But no matter how closely James examined the bars, hinges, and lock, he couldn't see a way to break free.

Fortunately, the opportunity presented itself a few hours later. Two sailors, Clanker and Koleniko if he remembered correctly, entered the brig and went directly to his cell door.

Clanker began to unlock the door as Koleniko gave him a nasty smile and said, "Cap'n wants to see ye."

James rose to his feet, looking between the two of them with a silent glare. Before, he would never have been able to take them both in a fight, but now he felt… stronger. More powerful. He didn't want to think too hard about the reason for that, but it might be the advantage he needed.

After the door swung open, Clanker stalked inside and grabbed James by the shoulder and hauled him out of the cell. James went willingly until he stood in front of Koleniko, and lunged.

Neither of the sailors could react before James' smashed his forehead in Koleniko's face with a resounding _crack_. The man fell backwards, covering his face with his hands (James had no idea why, he had more coral than nose), and James ran before they could recover their wits.

He didn't get very far. A hand grabbed him by the shoulder and sent him crashing into the bars of the cell. Another hand shoved against the back of his head, cruelly pressing his cheek against the crusted metal as he twisted and shouted in rage.

"Ah, leave 'im be, Clanker! Cap'n wants him in one piece."

The pressure eased off of his head, but both of his arms were twisted roughly behind his back and he felt and heard shackles locked around his wrists. Clanker's rough hand grabbed him by the collar of his waistcoat and pulled him off the cage, breathing into his ear with a wheeze of malicious laughter.

"For now. Get movin', English _dog!"_

James was shoved forward, by whom he couldn't tell, and he reluctantly climbed the stairs through the bowels of the ship. Every few seconds he would receive another jab to the back of his shoulder, causing him to stumble, but he grit his teeth tightly together and bore the mistreatment in silence.

The late morning sunlight pierced his eyes with its blinding rays, causing him to blink and hesitate as they reached the deck. A mistake, because he was shoved once more, and James barely caught his balance in time. He looked around but the crewmen were too focused on their tasks to notice him.

Only one pair of eyes paid him any attention, and they were as blue and deadly as icy waters.

Davy Jones met him with a razor-sharp smirk on his face, but as he opened his mouth to say something undoubtedly trenchant, James cut in before he could speak.

"Where is she?"

Jones slightly tilted his head, feigning confusion as he delicately asked, "Who?"

James scowled, pulling at the manacles behind his back in agitation. He lowered his voice into a threatening timbre as he said, "You know exactly who I'm talking about. Where's _Ona?"_

Jones rose his hairless brows with an "ah" and turned away from James, looking across the sparkling water, glittering in the dazzling sunlight.

"I haven't a clue where the devilfish is now, lad."

"You're a li—"

Jones closed the distance between them in the span of a breath. The captain's face bordered on thunderous, the promise of pain and torment on his brow.

"Choose yer next words. Carefully."

James met his eye firmly, unintimidated where a wiser man would be.

"Why was Ona taken off the _Dutchman_?" he asked in a quieter, less confrontational tone. Antagonizing the captain would do him no favors, and this could be his only opportunity to discover what had become of the navigator.

Jones examined his expression for a moment, and then his baleful expression melted into shrewd appraisal.

"Are ye certain ye wish to know?" he asked, his tone calculating as he continued to peer closely at James.

"Yes," James responded immediately. What was the captain playing at?

"Even if the news be of a… less than desirable nature?" Jones asked with amusement glinting in his icy eyes.

"Just—" James took a deep breath, reining in his emotions so his next words wouldn't be so short. "Please, tell me."

Jones gave him another sly glance, as if he could read James' every intention on his face. Maybe he could, but James didn't back down and met his stare unblinkingly.

"Yer devilfish is _Lord Beckett's_ property now," Jones finally responded, spitting the name with loathsome intent. "Seems he wants a pet of his own now that he's robbed me of mine."

Then it was true. Mercer hadn't been lying. All the fight fled out of James as a hundred different scenarios flashed through his mind, and his eyes dropped to the deck as he realized he was responsible for every single one of them.

If James hadn't been found by the_ Mariner…_ But no, it went back much further than that. Much further than his brief encounter with death. His fall had started the moment he had decided he would obtain Beckett's pardon, no matter the cost.

Redemption. A second chance. Honor returned to his family's name. At the time, it had seemed a fair price to pay…

_What have I done?_

Jones gave a small chuckle, startling James from his thoughts. He had entirely forgotten he was there, on the deck of the_ Dutchman_, so mired he had been in his sense of guilt and shame. In fact, he had been so distracted that he had failed to see what was on the horizon, and as it drew closer, James felt a mixture of emotions so wild and chaotic he could scarcely breathe.

There, just off the _Dutchman's_ starboard side, sat what appeared to be the entirety of the Royal Navy fleet. In the late morning sunlight, the armada of ships glinted in bright, proud colors. He had no doubt every ship had been scrubbed and polished to shine like a radiant beacon of English civility and order.

"Does it make ye homesick, James?"

He gave the captain a sharp look, but Jones had his back to him, his hands (or the approximations of) were pulled behind his back, his spine ramrod straight.

"May I… call ye James?" he asked with dainty smugness.

"What do you want?" He was suddenly tired, too tired to continue playing Jones' games. Whatever torment or punishment was coming, he simply wanted to get it over with. Maybe it would even be a pleasant distraction from his spiraling thoughts. His heroic plans of earlier to rescue Ona had lost their shine when he fully realized he was the cause of her capture to begin with.

"To give ye the opportunity to earn yer keep," Jones answered simply. "Otherwise, I have no need to keep lazy, useless sailors aboard my ship."

"You could have lead with that," James said with a slight, dry smile. "I do not wish to be aboard your ship."

Jones turned around; first with his head, and then the rest of his body following, and he gave James such a cold look that he had to fight not to shiver. He strolled up to James at a leisurely pace, and came to a stop much too near, his tentacles almost touching his right shoulder.

"The only way ye leave the _Dutchman _is if I send yer soul to the Locker." He didn't look at James, but rather past him. "Or ye finish out yer one hundred years of servitude. Between one and the other, ye do not want a taste of the Locker."

He turned his head slightly to meet James eye, his own icy ones narrowed with merciless scrutiny.

"I know. I created it."

Jones turned and walked to the portside gunwale, but this time, his two cursed guardsmen shoved James forward so he was forced to stand next to the captain as he looked out toward the horizon.

To his surprise and relief, the men removed his manacles, and he rubbed at his wrists and saw they were raw, bruised skin.

_Skin._ Not scales. So he wasn't that bad off. Not yet, anyway.

James glanced sideways at the captain to see if he had noticed his furtive movements, but Jones wasn't looking his way; his eyes were fixed on the line of ships that faced the English fleet. They were a ragtag, mismatched, clearly outgunned group, and James realized the pirates must have somehow banded together in preparation for the arrival of Beckett's force.

James would have been impressed—no one knew how stubborn, irritating, and willful pirates were better than he—if they weren't gathering together to face their own extinction.

_They are mad fools, _he thought, his emotions wavering between pity and vexation.

"First item of business, Master Norrington," Jones spoke, his eye line focused on the paltry pirate fleet. "Ye'll be comin' with me to a very important parlay. And as much as ye may despise the notion of following my orders…" He turned to give James an amused look and said, "…yer goin' to want to be present. Elsewise, ye'll not be reunited with those ye once called friends."

_Elizabeth,_ he thought at the same moment he felt a stone drop in the pit of his stomach.

Jones chuckled darkly.

"Thought that would get yer attention. Now." He turned away from James and pointed toward something near the mainmast. "Pick up that stack."

James blinked, looking between the cursed captain and the items in question: a pile of perfectly ordinary, barnacle-encrusted buckets.

"What for?" he asked suspiciously, eyes narrowed. Jones did not look happy with his orders being questioned, but he answered regardless.

"Unlike ye and the rest of these ship maggots, I cannot step on land except once every ten years." He tilted his head in a way James understood to mean agitation. "Ergo, I will need a way to be on land, without actually being _on_ land, while the negotiations take place."

James couldn't possibly have heard correctly. But Jones said no more. He simply glared at James, his continence becoming icier by the second. So James sighed through his nostrils and went to where the buckets sat waiting for him.

"This should be fascinating," James muttered under his breath, trying to imagine what this could look like and how it wouldn't be anything but ridiculous, but he picked up the stack without further complaint. It was quite heavy and unwieldy, so James looked around for the longboat they would be using to reach their destination, wherever _that _was. James hadn't exactly seen any islands around recently, but if what Jones said was true, they were heading for land in some form or another.

"Where's the longboat?" he finally asked when he spotted no such craft on the tarnished, crusted deck.

Jones gave a snort, and James nearly jumped out of his skin when a heavy weight landed on his shoulder. He turned his head to see Jones' claw firmly gripping him. The captain gave him a wicked smile and said:

"Ye might want to close yer eyes."

James opened his mouth… and a barrage of seawater rushed inside. The sensation of cold seawater rushed over him, and then he stumbled forward, lost his balance, and fell… onto solid ground.

He opened his eyes and saw he was on his hands and knees in the water, white sand covering his knuckles.

He coughed and sputtered and tried to get his bearings as he wiped his wet hair out of his face. Managing to rise to his feet, James blinked until the dizziness faded, and he looked around to see they were standing at the edge of a sandbar. The water wasn't that deep where he was, and the buckets lay in the sand from where they had toppled out of his arms.

James looked over his shoulder and confirmed the _Flying Dutchman_ was quite a distance behind them. He tried not to shiver, but it was a difficult urge to suppress. He had been briefed on the sort of unnatural abilities Jones and his crew possessed, but to experience it firsthand was… quite a lot to swallow. Both literally and figuratively.

"Are ye finished flailin' about like a dyin' minnow?"

James glanced over to the gruff, irritated voice, and noted Jones standing near the strip of sandy beach. Near, but not on. James felt a small tinge of smug satisfaction that he could just stroll across the beach if he wanted but Jones was stuck in the water like a petulant child.

"I'll be expectin' ye to do that on your own soon enough, so ye best start paying' attention," Jones said with cold curtness. Then he commanded in a sharp bark, "Start filling and layin' out those buckets!"

James sent him a scowl but did as he was told, internally grumbling to himself how he should have allowed Governor Swann to stab Jones' heart when he'd had the chance. It was a sentiment he'd been feeling a lot lately.

He had begun to fill the buckets with seawater when something caught his eye—a longboat making its way to their side of the sandbar. James' eyes narrowed against the sun—it was nearly noon, now—and they widened again when he realized who had arrived.

There were two men. One was taller with brown hair and tan skin, the other smaller, pale, and wearing a powdered wig so white it was almost blinding. He recognized both, and didn't much care for either.

"Norrington?" William Turner asked with faint astonishment. He came to a halt along the shore before the water, his face folded into a confused frown. "So, it's true. You're not dead."

"Yes, well. Not for lack of trying."

Turner didn't seem to appreciate his wry tone or his fatalistic humor. His frown deepened, his eyes flitting between James and the cursed captain.

"You're a crewman of the _Flying Dutchman?"_

James lifted his eyebrows and answered mildly, "I seem to have an extraordinary streak of bad luck, don't I?"

"So sorry to break up this… charming reunion."

James turned his gaze to the man who had spoken, narrowing in intense dislike. Hatred? Perhaps. His feelings towards Beckett were darkening by the minute as his grim imagination recounted all the terrible things he could have done to Ona in the time she had left the _Dutchman._

"But if you two gentlemen are done posturing at each other, I'd like to get this done as quickly as possible," Beckett said, a small distasteful twist to his lips. Then his sharp gaze wandered over James' shoulder. "Is there something wrong, Captain?"

When James looked back, Jones gave him a glower so dark it would have sent devils fleeing in terror.

"Get those buckets filled, _Norrington_," he snapped, seawater dribbling from his lips, "unless ye wish to taste the cat again!"

James grimaced but continued his task of filling the buckets, ignoring Turner's troubled gaze. He desperately wanted to goad Beckett for answers regarding Ona, but he knew the diminutive lord was too wily for that. And then James would have tipped his hand by showing how concerned he was, which could only cause further harm. Beckett was not above using people against each other.

That was how James came to be in this sticky situation, after all.

He had almost finished placing the line of filled buckets across the sand, leading to where Beckett was now standing, but then James found he couldn't lift the last one as it was too heavy and unwieldy. He tried dragging it along the sand, but it was taking far too long, and he couldn't go any faster without sloshing the water over the edges.

_Damned thing has a leak in it, anyway,_ he silently griped as he watched a small spray of water spurt from between two of the wooden planks.

He blinked when Turner grabbed the other end and gave James a nod, indicating he was ready to lift. James wasn't entirely successful at muting his sigh, but he gave him a small, thankful nod, and they carried the last bucket to the end of the line.

Once that was done, they turned to watch as Jones began to navigate the rather precarious path. It was just as ridiculous as he had imagined, and James was forced to turn away in order to keep from doing something truly mad. Like laugh in the face of his tormentor.

Unfortunately, turning away put him directly in front of Turner, and the lump of a boy was looking up at him with those large, brown, liquid eyes of his.

"I am truly sorry," Turn said quietly so the others wouldn't overhear.

James clenched his jaw. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew it was pride that made him want to snap at the young man, but that didn't stop him from doing it anyway.

"I do not desire or need your apologies, Turner," he said, breaking eye contact because it was becoming quite uncomfortable to look at him. Turner was entirely too earnest and sincere, and it was making it difficult for James to loathe him at that moment.

Then he thought of something that was far more useful to him than Turner's displays of regret.

"Is…" James swallowed the sudden lump in his throat and started again. "Did Elizabeth make it to safety?"

"See for yourself, Mister Norrington."

It was Beckett, not Turner, who answered. James looked at the smaller man with furrowed brows, and then followed his gaze…

And felt his heart stop.

Three figures approached—two he clearly recognized and one he did not. One of them filled his heart with relief (and a heaping draught of pain for good measure).

And the other figure made him scowl as dark thoughts crossed his mind, and his hand clenched into a fist.

Elizabeth Swann, Jack Sparrow, and a third man, who was clearly an unwashed, foul-smelling pirate, approached them across the sandy strip.

_Wait…_ He narrowed his eyes. He _did _recognize the third man. The monkey was new, but the large hat, the tufted beard, and the scarred face were all familiar. But… it was impossible. James had seen the man's corpse, lying on a mound of golden coins within a cavern on Isla de Muerta. The man was dead. Had been dead.

_Apparently that doesn't mean as much as it used to,_ James thought dryly as he appraised the pirate. Hector Barbossa. Once-cursed, undeniably once-dead, former captain of the _Black Pearl._

_"__James!"_

His attention was immediately riveted on Elizabeth. The look on her face ripped James' heart wide open, her naked expression desperate, hopeful, disbelieving. She began to run forward, but Sparrow (_bloody __**Sparrow**_) grabbed her by the arms and held her back.

James could not stop staring at her, drinking in her features like a man dying of thirst. She was dressed in strange garments, dark and scale-like. The sight of the scales made a stone drop in his stomach, an unpleasant reminder of his own state, but even so, her new adornments did nothing to hide or diminish her beauty.

His heart thudded painfully in his chest, his emotions erratic and wild. But when he spoke, his words were benumbed and cold.

"Hello, Elizabeth."

"But, _how!"_ she cried, still struggling against Sparrow's hold. The pirate was too distracted trying to keep her in place to notice James' changed appearance, but Barbossa was giving him a look that was a bit too interested.

"I saw you killed! I—" Elizabeth paused, her eyes going wide as her gaze lowered from his face to the open shirt under his unbuttoned waistcoat. Too late he realized what she was looking at.

"What _happened_ to you?" she asked in a breathless whisper, her honey-brown eyes wide with trepidation.

Her passion on his behalf would have been something James would have cherished once upon a time. He would have held her concern and devotion to his heart like a precious gem.

Now, his heart felt hard and unyielding. The pain was still there, but it began to fester into something ugly, jagged, and full of sharp edges. Not unlike the scales that were slowly devouring his body.

"The mysteries abound," he responded flatly.

Elizabeth blinked and stopped struggling, her expression creased with confusion. Sparrow was also looking at him now, his eyes dark and narrowed. But then they widened in discovery and an uneasy smile slipped across his face.

"Ye've been press-ganged into Jones' chain-gang, I expect," Sparrow said. Elizabeth gawked between the pirate and James, her mouth open in astonishment.

"Is it true?" she asked him. It sounded a bit too much like an accusation to him.

"Not. By. Choice." The words came out through his teeth, his jaw clenched. The coldness was becoming something else, something very close to anger. Anger at _her._

Some distant part of him knew he was being unfair. This wasn't her fault. James had helped her willingly, knowing the risks. So why did he feel something dangerously close to resentment?

"Well, who here hasn't been brought back from the land o' the dead against their wishes, eh?"

James shifted his glare to Barbossa, not finding the statement amusing in the least like the pirate surely did by the size of his smirk.

"This reunion is oh, so touching," Beckett stated with a thin smile that didn't reach his eyes. "But it's time we discuss—"

"Will?"

Elizabeth interrupted Beckett, completely ignoring him as her surprised gaze alighted on Turner. Beckett gave a slight frown, and Sparrow stopped her again with an arm on her shoulder.

_Took you long enough to notice the love of your life,_ James thought bitterly, which was immediately followed by, _Why did I just think that? _He had wanted to see Elizabeth for days, hoping she was safe, and this is how he chose to treat her?

What was _wrong_ with him?

"What are you doing here?" she asked Turner, her tone surprising to James. She didn't sound overwhelmed to see her beloved alive and safe. Nor did she sound angry that he was standing alongside their enemies.

Elizabeth simply sounded… perplexed.

"You be the cur that led the wolves to our door," Barbossa accused, scowling at Turner.

James frowned and turned his head, looking past where Jones stood to see that Turner neither denied nor confirmed the accusation. He simply stared at the opposing side without so much as blinking an eye.

"Don't blame Turner," Beckett said with a small curl to his lips. "He was merely the tool of your betrayal. If you wish to see its grand architect, look to your left."

First Barbossa, then Elizabeth, and finally Sparrow looked to their left. His bid to play the fool didn't work, judging by the glares in his direction, so he said, "My hands are clean in this. Figuratively," he added as he seemed to notice his dirty fingernails.

James wouldn't have believed Sparrow was_ not_ somehow at the heart of this conspiracy, until Turner spoke.

"My actions were my own, and to my own purpose. Jack had nothing to do with it."

James could only stare at the younger man. Turner was not as innocent and wholesome as James had once thought. It seemed he was a liar and a deceiver after all, just like James.

_Perhaps none of us were good men to begin with._

"Well spoke!" Sparrow agreed, flashing Elizabeth a gold-glinted smile. "Listen to the tool."

Elizabeth ignored his playful glibness and turned to her fiancé, her expression softening.

"Will, I've been aboard the _Dutchman_."

James furrowed his brows, trying but failing to understand what she was talking about.

"I understand the burden you bear, but I fear that cause is lost."

Now he was thoroughly confused. What burden did Turner bear from something aboard the…

_Of course._ His father was a part of the crew. James wanted to laugh bitterly as the rest of the pieces fell into place. _That's _why Turner had betrayed his friends? To save his father, a murderous monster who had run James bloody through without a shadow of remorse?

Anger began to smolder within his chest again.

"No cause is lost if there is but one fool left to fight for it," Turner said, his voice just as soft as Elizabeth's expression. James clenched his fist tightly, suddenly in the mood to hit something very hard.

Apparently, Jones had grown tired of the lover's exchange as well.

"Enough!" he snapped, seawater spraying from his mouth. "Ye came here because ye wished to parlay, and we deigned to entertain ye pitiful swine."

"That's quite all right, Captain," Beckett chastised him in an even tone. "I did not bring you and the traitor along so I could hear your thoughts on the matter."

"I know you did not just refer to me as a traitor after what you did to Governor Swann," James said with a tight, angry frown. Elizabeth snapped her head around to glare at Beckett, and the diminutive man gave a wistful sigh.

"I realize… the negotiations have gotten off to a rough start. Let us start over from the beginning, shall we?" When no one spoke, Beckett slightly lifted his chin and said, "What are your terms of surrender?"

Elizabeth gave a sharp laugh, one that lacked any sort of warmth.

"Odd. I was just about to ask you the same thing."

Beckett's false, sweet smile made an appearance as he said, "Oh, Miss Swann. I think you'll find I still hold all the cards. Do you truly believe I don't know what Mister Turner is up to?" When Elizabeth's brow furled in confusion, he explained, "If Turner wasn't acting on your behalf, then how did he come to give me this?"

Beckett held Sparrow's black compass up by its string, looking at the pirates with amusement. Barbossa's eyes widened with displeasure, and both he and Elizabeth turned their heads to stare at the pirate in question. Sparrow gave a nervous sort of smile, one that quickly faded into unhappiness.

_So, Sparrow did have a hand in this. Why am I not surprised,_ James thought smugly.

"You made a deal with me, Jack, to deliver the pirates," Beckett continued smoothly. "And here they are." He tossed the compass to Sparrow, who caught it just in time before it hit him in the face. "Don't be bashful. Step up, claim your reward."

James wondered what reward Beckett could be referring to. He watched them both closely, looking between Sparrow's face, which was steadily growing in discomfort, and Beckett, whose expression was becoming more amused by the second.

And then it clicked into place. The only item present that Sparrow had ever desired more than his old bloody ship… was Elizabeth.

James found himself chuckling before he could stop himself. Seven pairs of eyes, including the monkey's, turned to stare at him.

"Oh, Sparrow," he said with a shake of his head. "You're still using the same tricks and everyone is _still _falling for them. Do you ever grow tired of being you?"

"No. Why?" Sparrow answered, looking almost offended. "Are ye tired of being _you?"_

Suddenly, the object James wanted to hit was very much Sparrow-shaped. He was about to fire back a scathing retort when Jones interrupted with a snarl:

"Yer debt to me is still to be satisfied! One hundred years in servitude aboard the _Dutchman_, as a start!"

_Oh, please no,_ James silently begged to whichever gods were listening. A hundred years forced labor aboard the _Dutchman_ was one thing. A hundred years with Sparrow chirping into his ear was something else.

More and more the Locker was beginning to look the better option.

With a flush of shame, he pushed the selfish thoughts aside. He couldn't worry only about himself anymore. He still owed Ona a debt, and wallowing in his self-pity would do her no good.

Speaking of… James glanced sideways to where Turner stood, wondering if he had overheard anything while across enemy lines. But either Turner was purposefully ignoring him or he didn't notice James' attention, because he stared straight forward. More than likely, he was too distracted from staring at Elizabeth with that woebegone look on his face.

"He speaks truly, you know," James added in a mockingly cheery tone. "Our dread captain takes his debts _very_ seriously."

Jones shot him a look so cold it could freeze fire, but James simply raised his eyebrows in response. What could he do to him? Have him beaten some more? His back might be so thickly encrusted at this point that it wouldn't even leave a mark.

"That debt was paid, mate," Sparrow responded in his own smug tone. "With some help," he added belatedly, smiling at Elizabeth in a way that reminded James of how he had looked at her aboard the _Pearl._

_I wonder if Turner still has any idea of what's going on between those two,_ he thought with a mixture of resentment and dark amusement.

"You _escaped!"_ Jones snapped.

Sparrow waved away his objection.

"Technically—"

"I propose an exchange," Elizabeth suddenly spoke up, interrupting Sparrow. The pirate looked at her, smiled a mindless sort of smile, and then turned to stare at Lord Beckett, who looked very interested.

James was very interested as well.

"Will and James leave with us."

Her golden-brown eyes flickered to him, her expression purposefully blank so as to give nothing away. But something in her gaze thawed some of the ice around his heart.

"And you can take Jack," she added as an afterthought. The smile dropped from Sparrow's face faster than bird droppings. Even Barbossa looked startled at her proposition.

But for James, he actually thought he could hear his own heart singing, and the sun shone even brighter than before.

"Done," Will agreed, apparently having no qualms with selling out Sparrow either.

"Undone!" Sparrow piped up, his eyes wide with alarm.

"Done," Beckett said with a small smile.

James snapped his head to stare at the man, hope growing in his heart as he looked back at Elizabeth.

Then his heart sank as the captain of the _Dutchman_ began to speak.

"Sparrow isn't the only soul who owes me a hundred years. Master Norrington was promised to me, and he will serve the time he owes." His smile widened into something wicked as he turned his head toward James. "Yer not goin' _anywhere."_

James lowered his eyes before looking up to where Elizabeth stood, feeling the need to silently apologize to her. It was clear to him now that his death had affected her, and he knew having to let him go a second time would bring her distress.

But Elizabeth didn't _look_ as if she was ready to say farewell. In fact, it seemed as if she was about to argue the point most stubbornly, perhaps even violently, but then Beckett spoke before she was able to act.

"Having one of the Brethren Court would be very valuable, but I doubt his presence would cover the cost of me losing both Turner and my former admiral." Beckett looked directly at Elizabeth, the corners of his lips turned up lightly as he stated, "You may choose one, Miss Swann. But not both."

"It's _'Captain,'"_ said Elizabeth and Sparrow in unison. She gave the pirate an irritated look, but James didn't miss the twitch at the corner of her mouth. Ugly jealousy curled in James' stomach like a great, green snake, rearing its head as Sparrow returned her look with a wide, roguish grin.

"Take Norrington," Turner said abruptly, startling James enough that he stopped glaring at the pirate. "A hundred years aboard the _Dutchman_ is a fate I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy," he added when surprised faces turned his way.

Something about his words, or maybe the idea that Turner was so heroically calling for James to be saved while he nobly sacrificed himself, raised James' proverbial hackles. Never once had he begrudged Elizabeth for following her heart. But in that moment, he suddenly despised the both of them.

"In other words, me," James responded with bitterness so sharp it hurt to even hear.

Turner's eyes widened in surprise, and his voice suddenly sounded so young as he said, "We are not enemies."

James scoffed, wondering how Turner could be so painfully naïve, even now.

"Though we might technically be on the same side at the moment, we've always been at odds, Turner. No point in denying it now." James tore his gaze away from the younger man, who seemed too stunned to form a response, and he met Elizabeth's eyes while doing his best to ignore how pale she had gone under her tan skin.

"Elizabeth, you must choose your betrothed." He narrowed his eyes lest she foolishly protest. "There is no other possible outcome."

"No, Elizabeth," Turner objected, apparently having found his voice again. "What Norrington faces is worse than death. You must choose him."

"What a _noble_ stance you've taken," James said, his words acerbic and sharp, "but you forget the reality of the situation. Elizabeth will never prioritize my life over yours, and to pretend otherwise is an insult to us both. Ignorant heroism does not suit you, Mister Turner," he added with a sneer, the expression feeling odd and unfamiliar on his face.

_"__Stop it!"_ Elizabeth cried out angrily, and James was suddenly reminded of her outrage on Isla Cruces. "Both of you, stop it!"

Before he could answer, Barbossa turned to her and snarled, "Ye're forgettin' one thing, missy. Jack's one of the nine Pirate Lords. You have no right."

"King," Elizabeth responded triumphantly.

_King?_ James wondered, so confused he forgot for a moment he was in the middle of venting his loathing in Turner's direction.

"James Norrington's life belongs to me," Jones seethed, drawing everyone's attention back again. "Jack Sparrow's life belongs _to me."_

Beckett released a small sigh. "Make your decision, _Captain_ Swann. Or you will get neither of them."

Elizabeth looked as if the breath had been knocked out of her. But then, with a sort of strength James had never truly appreciated before, she squared her shoulders and her lips pressed together with firm resolution.

But when her honey-brown eyes fell on him, the mask slipped slightly, and he glimpsed the guilt and sorrow beneath.

"I'm sorry, James." Her voice was soft like a night's breeze. It was a voice he would have longed to hear, once. But now, it filled him with a bitter chill.

"Aren't we all," he responded dully. James saw her jaw slacken and her eyes were suddenly glassy, and he thought, quite dumbfounded, that she might be on the verge of tears.

_Tears for me? Or because of me?_ Either reason made him feel hollow.

"It seems I have no further use of you, Mister Turner," Beckett said in a rather friendly tone. "Enjoy the losing side of the war."

Sparrow, seeing he had no choice in the matter, did a rather odd thing: he lifted off his hat and bowed to Elizabeth, an impish smile on his face.

"I shall go as you command, your nibs."

_"__Blackguard!"_ cried the older pirate, pulling out his cutlass.

For a moment, James thought Barbossa was going to slit Sparrow's throat. But either his aim was terrible or that was not his intent, for he only succeeded in slicing off one of Sparrow's hair baubles. The monkey leapt from Barbossa's shoulder and scooped it up, causing Sparrow to grimace with displeasure.

The odd exchange became more intense as Barbossa strode forward and stood directly in front of Sparrow. His quiet words were carried on the wind so James could catch them.

"If ye have somethin' to say, I might be sayin' something as well."

Sparrow glared right back at him, seemingly unperturbed, and said, "First to the finish, then?"

James narrowed his eyes. Very odd, indeed. But neither Beckett nor Jones seemed to particularly care about the stand-off, especially since Sparrow backed away from Barbossa and was now heading in their direction.

Turner went to meet him in the middle, and they orbited around each other like wary animals. They seemed about to pass each other when Turner raised a fist and punched Sparrow across the jaw, and then grabbed him by the shoulders and threw him to the ground.

_Perhaps he took my warning to heart, after all,_ James mused, thinking back to Isla Cruces again as he watched the pair scuffle on the sand.

On the island, James had tried to tell Turner that Sparrow only wanted Elizabeth for himself. Sparrow had thrown the assumption back in his face, accusing Norrington of the same selfish intent, because that was just the kind of underhanded ploy Sparrow would use.

Never mind that James had, in fact, wanted Elizabeth even then. Because at least James hadn't been deluded enough to think he still had a chance with her, unlike a certain flea-bitten, mangy pirate who was currently flailing on the ground in front of him.

The two men were mostly a confused tangle of limbs by now, with Sparrow trying to crawl away while Turner pulled at his coat. Barbossa and Elizabeth ended up dragging them apart, all the while Jones laughed in that chilling way of his. Beckett appeared impatient or possibly bored.

Sparrow dusted sand off of his coat and hat, apparently unworried about the younger man's abrupt bout of anger. He turned and nearly walked into Beckett, who held out an arm to his left, indicating where he should stand. Sparrow grimaced and glanced at Jones before looking away, his mannerism stiff as he stood beside the captain.

"Do you fear death?" Jones asked in a quiet, almost intimate manner. The question sent an unnatural chill down James' spine. A shadow of his fear was echoed in Sparrow's answer.

"Ye've no idea."

Beckett stepped forward and Sparrow immediately filled the space he left, edging as far away from the grinning Jones as he could get. James couldn't blame him in the least. He caught a glance of Elizabeth and Will looking at each other, and to his surprise, he saw none of the dewy young love that had been there the day she had broken off her engagement to James.

_Interesting._

Beckett spoke, and even though his voice was soft, it still carried an undeniable authority. "Advise your Brethren: You can fight, and all of you will die. Or you can not fight, in which case only most of you will die."

Elizabeth also stepped forward, her eyes hardened in a steely gaze James had never witnessed before. What had happened to the soft, proper beauty of Port Royal? Perhaps she had never existed to begin with, either.

"You murdered my father," she accused in a low tone. "And you allowed Jones to imprison a good man."

_A good man?_ James echoed faintly, not feeling one way or another about her assessment. All he felt was a sort of apathetic numbness that was new and not altogether unwelcome in James' mind.

"They chose their own fate," Beckett answered simply.

"And you have chosen yours," she answered with her chin held forward. "We will fight, and you will die."

With one last sorrowful glance at James, she turned and walked away, back across the sandbar presumably toward their longboat. Barbossa and Turner followed after a moment, their own expressions grim.

"So be it," came Beckett's quiet reply.

"Well," Sparrow remarked, his tone suddenly chipper. "I think we've learned a valuable lesson here, eh?"

Jones' only response was to growl in Sparrow's direction, forcing him to retreat a step. Then he snapped his head, narrowing his icy gaze as he fixed it on James.

"Freedom is but a cruel dream to ye now, Master Norrington. So ye may as well learn to accept yer lot, and snuff out whatever dram of hope ye have left." The icy humor faded from his eyes, and he shouted, "Now pick up these buckets!"

James tried not to flush in humiliation as Jones stalked away. It made him feel slightly better as he watched the captain awkwardly make his way back to the sea, looking like he might fall over with each new bucket he had to traverse.

He didn't even realize Sparrow was standing next to him until he spoke.

"Now there's a sight one does not see every day," he mused, pressing his finger into his chin in a thoughtful expression. James sent him a hard glare.

_"__Why_ are you speaking to me?"

Sparrow looked flummoxed, as if the question truly surprised him.

"Ye know what they say 'bout misery and company and all that," he said with a wave of his hand. James rolled his eyes, chose it was best to ignore the infuriating pirate, and began to work on emptying the buckets and carrying them in an awkward stack.

Sparrow didn't offer to help, and James didn't ask.

"Would ye like assistance getting back to yer ship, Lord Governor?" James heard Jones ask as he carried the buckets back to the shoreline. He was amused to see a rather uneasy look on Beckett's pale face.

"I shall manage on my own, Captain," he responded as he boarded the longboat, looking dubiously at the long oars he would have to maneuver himself.

"Suit yerself," Jones said with a knowing smile. His mirthful expression twisted into something sharper as he looked between James and Sparrow.

Without warning, he grabbed them both by the shoulder. Despite knowing what was coming, James wasn't prepared for the rush of wind and water, the disoriented feeling of having moved without moving, and the hard deck suddenly beneath his feet.

The buckets caused him to overbalance, and James stumbled and fell for the second time. Sparrow wasn't in much better condition—he had tripped like he'd had too much rum, only saved from a fall by wrapping his arms around the crusted mainmast. He looked around with wide, startled eyes, his face a tinge of green.

They were back aboard the _Dutchman._

"Throw 'em both in the brig and prepare for battle!" shouted Jones. Two of the crew grabbed James by his arms and yanked him to his feet, causing the rest of the buckets to scatter.

"Battle?" piped Sparrow in a nervous voice. "Such a waste, seein' as you have such a fine, lovely ship with a severe need of a good burning—"

He heard the telltale sound of a fist connecting with flesh, and Sparrow was silent the rest of the way to the brig. James was unceremoniously shoved into the cell, but he managed to keep his feet and move out of the way before Sparrow plowed into him. The pirate had a hand to his stomach, his face twisted in discomfort.

"Friendly little scampers, ain't they?" he wheezed out as the crewman emptied out of the brig, throwing a few jeers their way as they did so.

"Quite," James responded dully.

"Don't do me any favors, Fish Face!" Sparrow called after them. Then he winced as he glanced at James and said, "No offense."

"Why would I…" He realized what Sparrow was referring to, and gave him the sarcastic I-rather-despise-you smile James reserved for this particular pirate. "That's very clever."

Sparrow raised an eyebrow and then waved a hand to indicate his entire person. "Actually, mate, you pull off the whole 'sea-man' look quite well. I'm almost green with envy. Er, no offense, again."

James sighed and turned away from Sparrow, already feeling the cell was much too cramped. He preferred the company of his last cellmate much more.

And then, flush of shame went through him. He hadn't thought about Ona for most of the negotiations and had completely forgotten to try and ply Turner for information.

Well, now was his chance to make amends. Even if he didn't know where she was, he could do something else that would fix the problem. Remove Jones from the equation, take control of the _Dutchman_, and end Lord Beckett's reign once and for all.

Yes, that would solve his problems in one fell swoop. _Well, most of my problems, _he thought with irritation as he caught sight of Sparrow poking a flowering barnacle.

"Sparrow—sorry, _Captain_ Sparrow," he apologized insincerely. "Would you happen to know a way to escape this cell, preferably before the battle commences?"

If James thought he had offended Sparrow with the slight, he was wrong—the man positively beamed at his title being remembered.

"I have no idea!" he responded cheerily, flashing his golden and white teeth.

"Wonderful," James responded with equal false brightness. "Truly."

"I wholeheartedly agree," Sparrow said with a finger pointed for enthusiasm. "I mean, we're here, me and you. You and me. Alive. Or, mostly alive," he remarked, staring pointedly at James' scaly chest, before shaking his head as if to clear it.

"Anyway, my point, Jimmie, is this," Sparrow said with airy confidence. "We are on the _Dutchman_, where we belong. And she is on the _Endeavor_, where she belongs. It's all in proper order," he added with a tap to the side of his nose.

James blinked.

"What?"

Sparrow blinked back.

"What what?"

James scowled and demanded slowly, "Repeat what you said."

"I said, 'I mean, we're here, me and—'"

"Yes, yes, I got that, I mean, what you said after? About the _Endeavor_?"

"Oh!" Sparrow's smile returned, his eyes glinting with good cheer. "Aye! She's on the _Endeavor_! That's what ol' William told me to tell you. 'Tell Norrington she's on the _Endeavor_.' That's what he said I should say. To you."

James felt as if his brain had stopped working. Or more accurately, that Sparrow's had.

"He… told you…"

"Aye. He told me. And that's what _I_ told _you_. Are yer ears all right?" Sparrow slightly leaned to one side, staring at Norrington's head with apprehension on his face. "Not covered in fishy bits, are they?"

James ignored his idiocy and asked, in a faint voice with his hands curled into fists, "You didn't feel the need to share this with me before?"

Sparrow didn't see the threatening gesture, so he frowned and looked mildly annoyed.

"I did tell ye before."

"No, you didn't," James said, half in confusion and half in annoyance.

"Yes, I did," Sparrow responded with an equally bothered tone.

"No. You didn't."

"Yes. I _did."_

"No. You. _Didn't."_

"Did _so!"_

James closed his eyes and began to count, knowing if he didn't he was going to wring Sparrow by his neck. When he thought he could stand the sight of the pirate, he opened his eyes. And immediately regretted the decision. But he couldn't go around with his eyes closed, as much as he wished to.

"When, exactly, did Turner relay this information to you?"

"Weren't that obvious?" Sparrow responded, looking up from his dirty fingernails with a dirty smile. "When he assaulted me! Clever, really. I don't think that Beckett knew what he was up to."

He gave a crooked little smile as he rubbed his jaw and added, "William does like to get carried away with his theatrical effects, though."

"Did he tell you anything else?" James asked impatiently, trying to steer the conversation back to the most important part. "Anything at all? Did he mention anyone named Ona?"

"Ona? What kind of _nom de plume_ is that? Never heard of an _Ona._" He furrowed his brows. "And no, William didn't say anythin' else. Just 'Tell Norrington she's aboard the _Endeavor._' Who's _she?_" he asked belatedly, his eyes bright with curiosity.

"None of your concern," James said with a scowl, but his thoughts had already turned away from his infuriating conversation partner. Ona was onboard the _Endeavor._ Beckett's flagship. Which meant she _must _be nearby.

James realized, very suddenly, that he could conceivably rescue her. If he could get a hold on the whole vanishing-from-one-spot-and-appearing-in-another mode of transportation that Jones and his crew employed. He could find the _Endeavor,_ sneak aboard, and rescue her. It was possible if he managed to learn his new abilities quickly.

His only comfort on that front was that all of Jones' men could do it, and they weren't exactly the brightest lot.

For the counterpoint: James knew where the key was. He knew where the chest was. He knew what he had to do and how to do it. The only question was… _should_ he do it?

There were two paths before him, and once one was chosen, the other would be closed off to him. There was no guarantee that if he managed to succeed in becoming the new captain of the _Dutchman_ that he would reach Ona in time to save her. She was under Beckett's control and a full-scale war was about to explode around them.

Whatever James decided, one thing was clear. He was running out of time.

* * *

_**wow, super longer chapter! lots of stuff going down! but i hope you enjoyed it**_

_**Two things of clarification: when Jones mentions his pet, he was talking about his kraken and how Beckett made him kill it :(**_

_**And two, James referring to Governor Swann almost stabbing the heart takes place in a deleted scene. if you havent seen it yet, i highly recommend finding it on youtube. it lets us catch a glimpse into James' and the governor's relationship and how much they both care for Elizabeth, and i'll be forever bitter it was cut from the movie.**_

_**Anyway, i dont usually leave end notes so i just wanted to take the time to thank everyone who has commented so far. they mean everything to me and help motivate me to keep writing Ona and James' story. y'all are the greatest and i love you.**_

_**PS- the quote at the beginning of the chapter is a real one from James' jerk of a dad. it was in some supplemental material so i'm not 100% sure if that means it's canon. It is in my heart.**_


	24. On the Cusp

Ona's rise from sleep was a slow, languid one, lulled by the gentle rocking of the ship and the soft fragrance of the sea. She was so comfortable and warm that she didn't want to leave her bed, but she didn't want to miss breakfast with Franklin. It was her favorite time of day, filled with food and discussion of charts and ports and navigation routes. Franklin always double-checked with her to make sure their course was the safest to travel.

She pulled the covers tighter around her, smiling and stretching out her toes. The smile was cut short as her back twinged in intense pain.

Ona went completely still. Something was wrong. The creaking of the ship was unfamiliar. The bed was too soft. And the material wrapped around her was too heavy to be a sheet.

She sat bolt upright, heart hammering in her chest as she looked frantically around the strange, sunlit bedroom. On the edge of panic, she tried to force her sleep-laden mind to remember how she'd gotten there.

Movement caught her eye, and she looked down to find Norrington's coat had dislodged from her shoulder and fallen into her lap. She stared at the object for a moment, uncomprehendingly, but at the sight of that dark navy color, everything came rushing back.

This was not the _Mariner's Lament_. Franklin was dead. And she was alone in the world.

Ona allowed herself two minutes. She buried her face in her hands, her breath coming out in ragged bursts. She thought she might scream, or cry, or simply explode like an ignited powder keg, but something stopped her. It was that scent again. The soothing scent of the sea, lingering on the material in her hands.

Ona pulled Norrington's coat to her chest and buried her face in it, her broken gasps muffled by the thick fabric. Almost immediately, her heart slowed to a more reasonable rate, and she no longer felt the weight on her chest that had threatened to crush her.

She breathed. And breathed. She focused on the feel of the soft sheets against her skin, the sound of the hull creaking, and the buttery texture of the afternoon light as it fell through the windows. And most of all, she breathed in the scent of the sea. Of her world. It smelled like home.

Finally, when the wave of wild emotions that had threatened to overtake her had subsided, Ona took a deep breath and rose from the bed. Her bare feet were cold against the dark wood floor, and it helped to further sharpen her mind, forcing her to stay in the present and not dwell on the darkness that was never far from her thoughts.

She looked around for her dress and belatedly remembered it had been taken for cleaning and mending. Padding to the door, she opened it with slow cautiousness, half-expecting an alarm to be raised for her daring to leave her quarters. But she wasn't leaving—she spotted her dress, folded and neat on a side table next to the door, and she grabbed it and quickly pulled back inside.

After shutting the door, she unfolded the dress and found it sparkling clean and almost good as new, the back of the shirt sewn in tight, crisp lines. Glad to be rid of the flimsy nightgown, she tugged it off, wincing as it scraped against the dried bandages on her back.

Knowing it was going to hurt like the devil but having no other choice, Ona awkwardly peeled the soiled bandages from her back. It was like tearing off strips of her actual skin from how they stuck to the wounds, but once they were free, the pain began to subside. She had always been a quick healer, and with no need to worry about the wounds becoming festered, she didn't bother to call on the ship's surgeon. The less she had to interact with Beckett's people, the better.

Once that unpleasant task was complete, Ona quickly put on her dress, smoothing the material with a satisfied motion of her hands. It wasn't close to making things right, but she felt steadier, more prepared to face what was to come.

She was about to leave the cabin, planning to find some food while trying to avoid the shrewd-eyed man-in-charge, but then she hesitated, her gaze falling onto the navy-and-gold coat. Ona walked towards it slowly, as if her boots moved of their own volition, and she reached down to gently rub the thick material through her fingers.

So far, she had done well putting thoughts of Norrington out of her mind. But now there was a voice in her head—one which sounded very similar to Franklin's—telling her his betrayal didn't make much sense. The admiral had acted on her behalf, had managed to convince Jones to spare her life. And as angry as she still was about Franklin's death, Norrington was not to blame. He may have stolen Jones' heart and given it to Beckett, but the admiral couldn't have known it would have resulted in the death of a man he had never met.

But did any of that matter if what Lord Beckett had said was true? It would not have been the first time he had betrayed an ally, if that's indeed what she was. She wasn't sure at this point. She had thought, maybe, they had had a chance to become… What had he called it? _Friendly acquaintances?_

But now…

Ona stared at the cloth, narrowing her eyes as if the coat itself was needling her rather than its owner. With an impatient huff, she snatched it up and placed it around her shoulders, this time putting her arms through the sleeves. They were too long, hanging just past her fingertips, but she immediately felt that sense of safety she had experienced the night before while falling asleep. She knew it was made of nothing more than fabric, and yet, she felt as if she were wearing armor.

Not questioning it—and certainly not thinking about why this was so—Ona left her cabin with plans to seek out a meal. She didn't make it five steps before a guard stopped her, inquired as to what she was doing, and then escorted her to the captain's cabin once she told him.

She was interested, and then immediately suspicious, when the doors were opened for her and Ona saw there were two occupants already inside.

One was the man she had nearly strangled the night before (and how good that had felt), and the other was a stranger. He was a young man with dark eyes and brown hair swept back in a ponytail, and wore the garb of a merchant sailor instead of a marine.

But that's not what caught her eye. The young man looked up at her, his brows raised in mild curiosity, but then they furrowed in what she was sure was recognition at the sight of Norrington's coat.

"Ah, Miss Sharp. Please, join us for lunch," Beckett greeted her, his smile light and friendly. And also exceedingly untrustworthy, she thought, even if he had done nothing to earn her distrust yet. But she had learned patience over the years. After Beckett's speech the night before, along with his generous offer, she had realized there was a catch hidden somewhere out of sight. She only needed to watch and wait, and he would reveal his true nature and motives in time.

Until then, she was damn hungry.

Beckett stood and pulled out a chair clearly meant for her, and after a few tense seconds where she eyed him, she sat upon it. She even let him help move her chair forward without so much as a biting remark.

Beckett returned to his chair, smoothed down the front of his dark teal brocade waistcoat and said, "How did you sleep, if I may ask?"

"I slept," she responded curtly, keeping her eyes on the food in front of her. She heaped biscuits onto her plate, as well as all the fruit that hadn't been eaten, her stomach rumbling at the delicious sight.

"That is good to hear," he responded in a friendly tone, apparently unbothered by her short manners. He paused and said, "I apologize, I have not made the proper introductions. Miss Sharp, this is William Turner."

"How do you do?" the young man asked politely. Ona gave him a brief, cursory glance, decided the question was one of cordiality that didn't need answering, and proceeded to bite into a biscuit after filling it with strawberry jam.

"Miss Sharp is… not one to dole out her words in frivolity," Beckett said by way of apology, though he sounded a little too amused for it to be truly sincere.

"And yet, I do not how to speak," she responded without looking up, ripping another bite out of the bread. She thought she saw the hint of a smile on the young man's face, but she wasn't entirely sure.

"Indeed you do," Beckett said so quietly she almost didn't hear it. Ona continued to ignore him, figuring if he wanted something he would have to make an effort for it, and in the meantime, she would focus on replenishing her strength. She didn't know if she would need it soon, but she knew it was better to be over-prepared and breathing than underprepared and not.

"I apologize, my dear, but Mister Turner and I have some business to attend to." Beckett rose from the table and gave a slight nod to the man across from him. William Turner gave a small frown but also stood. His frown became something kinder when he turned his gaze on her.

"It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Sharp."

"I doubt it," she responded while licking jam off of her fingers. William Turner coughed and cleared his throat, and this time she didn't miss the surprised smile hidden behind his fist.

Beckett, apparently unaffected or perhaps used to her rude behavior by now, merely bid her farewell before exiting the cabin with the other man.

She watched them leave, her eyes narrowed. What was that man plotting now? He certainly seemed the scheming type, if last night's stagecraft was anything to go by.

Ona quickly finished her meal, wanting to explore Beckett's chartroom without his prying eyes upon her. She rose from the table and gave a cursory glance at the two guards stationed near the door, but they didn't stop her or even look in her direction. So she began to slowly explore the room, using only her eyes instead of her hands, not wanting the draw the attention of the marines.

Within a minute of looking at his expensive mahogany furniture, detailed nautical and military maps, and the self-portrait that was larger than its real life counterpart, Ona came to the fast realization that Beckett was a vain man. But unlike most vain men, his ambitions were not shallow and fleeting. There was a tenacious, obstinacy about him. After all, one did not lead the Royal Navy and acquire the heart of Dany Jones by having small aspirations. His diminutive stature belayed his large appetites, and she wondered how many men had underestimated him because of it.

A display case caught Ona's attention, filled with various trinkets and baubles, and clearly of value to Beckett as it was protected by a glass lid. There were coins of different sizes and metals, rolled and weathered parchment, an ancient looking hand mirror inlaid with pearls… and a sharpened dirk with a scrimshaw handle.

Ona looked closer at the blade, noting the beautiful artwork of a three-mast ship on its handle, but an unpleasant revulsion moved through her when her eyes fell upon the handle made of bone. Taken from a walrus or a whale, it was difficult to tell, but there was no doubt the creature had been murdered without mercy and the body desecrated for trinkets.

"Excuse me, ma'am."

She spun at the sound of the voice, startled as she hadn't heard footsteps, but it was only one of the marines addressing her.

"Lord Beckett wishes for you to wait on deck for his return."

"It's a shame wishes so often go unfulfilled," she responded coolly. The marine looked uneasy, slightly shifting in discomfort, and she suddenly felt… not guilty, but not proud of her words either. Her ire rested with Beckett, not this luckless sailor. She sighed and said in a kinder tone, "But I could use the fresh air, I suppose."

The marine looked relieved, happy almost, and he said, "Very good, ma'am. Right this way."

Ona followed him out and onto the deck, blinking at the bright noon sunlight bearing down on her face. She wondered if they were going to set a guard on her to make sure she didn't try to sneak overboard. She soon saw, however, that there was no need—at least two dozen marines were on deck, stationed along the railing and standing at alert. Ona soon realized why.

It was a shocking sight. A line of ships stretched out behind them; ahead of them, another line of ships. It didn't take a commander to know these armadas were facing off in preparation of battle. But they hadn't moved on each other yet, and Ona wondered what they were waiting for.

She looked about the deck and caught one of the men staring at her, his jaw clenched in nervousness. Wondering why he was staring at her in such a fashion, she looked down at his uniform, and saw his insignia marking him as a lieutenant.

Knowing this might be her only chance to obtain answers in Beckett's absence, she strode across the deck towards him, ignoring the other stares she was earning in her wake. Once she stood before the lieutenant, she tilted her head back and stared him directly in the face. He seemed even more nervous by her emboldened stance, if the hard-swallow at her approach was anything to go by.

"What is happening?"

The lieutenant blinked at her demanded question, but he answered readily enough. "The entirety of the Royal Navy has gathered so we may destroy the remaining dregs of piracy."

"Does this have to do with the Brethren Court?" she asked bluntly, knowing she didn't have time for subtly. The man gave her a sharp, surprised look, confirming her suspicions.

"I can't tell you anything about that," he answered evasively, moving his focus away from her face and to the horizon, as if that could calm his nerves. As she studied his face, a thought occurred to her.

"You know what I am?" she asked, her voice tilted with curiosity. He looked back at her, and his eyes widened a fraction before he glanced away again. It was all the answer she needed.

"You are Lord Beckett's guest," he said, still keeping his eyes firmly on the horizon.

"That's not quite what I asked, Lieutenant," she answered with an iron undertone. He swallowed again, his nervousness almost palatable. She sighed quietly through her nose, realizing she should probably stop tormenting the poor man. He couldn't give her answers if he worked himself into a fainting spell.

"And where is Lord Beckett now?" she asked more gently, giving him a reprieve, and he did seem to relax by a hair.

"He and Mister Turner are entreating with the… pirates." He said that last word with a mixture of confusion and intense dislike, no doubt disapproving of his master's choice to negotiate with them.

"Are there pirates onboard?" she asked, hope rising within her, only to be dashed by his next words.

"God, no." The lieutenant cleared his throat, looking somewhat abashed. "They are… at a neutral location."

Ona made a show of looking out at the dual fleets.

"Pray tell, which ship belongs to neither side?"

His gaze flickered to her once more, and she wasn't entirely sure of his expression. Mostly put-upon, and a little bit… amused?

"They are meeting on a sandbar that stretches between the two armadas," he finally responded. "Does that answer your question?" His tone wasn't irritated but it was clipped, and for some reason, he reminded her very much of another naval officer she knew.

"Are you acquainted with a James Norrington?"

His surprise was quite apparent, so open was the shock on his face as he stared at her. The man truly didn't know how to mask his emotions.

"I… he was my commanding officer when I served at Fort Charles." His eyes slightly narrowed. "Why?"

"What kind of man is he?" Ona asked, ignoring his question. The lieutenant gave her a wary look out of the side of his eye as he turned back to stare over the water.

"These are very strange questions you have," he muttered, almost more to himself than to her.

"I simply… wish to know if he is trustworthy."

Her answer, quite honest in its entirety, drew his surprised attention. Ona took the opportunity to get a good look at him. Not at his features or his clothing or anything of the sort. It was the eyes that held the true nature of a person. His were a light brown, warmly reflecting the sunlight, but it wasn't enough information to tell her what kind of person this lieutenant was.

If she had had her full powers, she could have weighed his soul in an instant. It was what her kind did best—judged the worth of mortals in order to decide their fate. She missed that aspect of her former life, and found it very difficult to trust when one had to rely on a person's actions to know their intent. It was much simpler knowing with total certainty, one way or another, with a single glance.

"He… was a man of honor," the lieutenant spoke, slowly and reluctantly. "I never had any reason to complain while serving under his command."

_"__Was?"_ repeated Ona, tilting her head as she frowned. "Is he no longer honorable?"

"Well, no," he remarked with confused glance. "I mean, that is to say… Admiral Norrington is dead."

"Is he?" she asked faintly, raising her brows. "How did I get his coat, I wonder?"

The double-take he did while looking down at her clothing was nearly comical. No, it _was_ comical, and so was his expression of stark confusion. It was almost too easy to get a reaction out of him, and she wondered if she should just leave the poor man alone.

"The admiral is alive?" he asked with quiet wonder. She studied his face for a moment, and then had another thought.

"I suppose your Lord Beckett keeps his secrets well, but yes, he's currently being held as a prisoner onboard the _Flying Dutchman_." She watched as his expression went from troubled to alarmed. But she ignored his reactions and made as if to look around at the ships behind theirs. "Is the _Dutchman_ here, by chance?"

"Ah… it's, right over there," he said haltingly once he was capable of speech. Ona looked in the direction he was pointing, and she realized she had missed it because it was directly in front of them and had been blocked by the bow. She left the lieutenant's side and went atop the fo'c'sle, eyeing the dark ship with her lips pressed together. It was too far to swim to, unless she stole a boat, and then what would she do? Fight through an entire crew of immortal sailors just to reach a man she wasn't sure hadn't betrayed her?

"Is it true?" Ona asked when she felt the officer's presence beside her, keeping her eyes straight ahead on the _Dutchman_. Perhaps he was making sure she didn't try to jump overboard, but either way, she could at least ply him for information while he acted as her second shadow.

"Is what true?" he asked. She could visualize the suspicious frown on his face without even having to look.

"Did Norrington deceive his companions so he could steal the heart of Davy Jones?" she clarified, her voice subdued as the words weighed heavily on her.

He hesitated so long that she turned to look at him. His nervous features told her there was conflict within him, but for whatever reason, he eventually answered her and there was undeniable truth in his words.

"He did return after a lengthy time, in which no one knew where he had gone. Lord Beckett reinstated him within the Navy and even bestowed upon him the rank of admiral. Admiral Norrington wouldn't give any details, but the _Dutchman_ joined the fleet soon after." He gave a small, tired sigh, and mumbled, "Heathen gods and cursed captains. It's all far too much."

Her disappointment in his answer was eclipsed by her sudden and intense curiosity.

"Heathen gods?" She moved to face him, her back pressed against the railing as she stared at him acutely. "Why do you say that?"

"It's nothing. Just a figure of speech," he said quickly. There were beads of sweat on his brow.

"That's no figure of speech I've ever heard of," Ona responded, shifting closer and dropping her voice into a secretive tone. "What do you know of heathen gods?"

"Ah, look! Lord Beckett returns," the lieutenant exclaimed, his voice pitched higher than it had been a moment ago. He glanced between her and the approaching longboat, giving a brief, uneasy smile.

Ona decided to let it go for now, fully intending to return to the topic as soon as she got the chance. She followed his gaze to the boat, then past it to the dark silhouette of the _Flying Dutchman._

One moment, she was wondering what was happening to the former admiral, and in the next moment, she was scolding herself for it. Why was she even thinking about James Norrington at a time when she should be worried about her own life? He had sold her out. He would have to deal with the consequences, whatever they were, and it mattered not to her.

But still, she wondered, as she eyed the longboat that was hoisted onto the deck. Perhaps there was a way to escape the ship _and_ permanently liberate Norrington from the _Dutchman's_ grip. As much as she wanted to dismiss him and focus only on getting out of this situation alive, she had made promises to Franklin. It was the last oath she had made to him, and the last one she would ever be able to make.

_Damn you, Franklin, _she thought with sudden anger._ What the hell am I supposed to do? You know I'm useless at navigating anything that isn't a body of water._

"Enjoying the view, Miss Sharp?"

Ona donned her most unimpressed stare, taking in Beckett's appearance as he stood beside her. The lord seemed to be in a cheery mood, and she assumed that boded ill for her and the world at large.

"Or at least, what you can see of it," he added with a slight curl to his lips. Ona looked out over the water and saw a faint mist forming over the surface, obscuring both of the armadas but leaving the middle strangely clear.

Without waiting for her response, Beckett turned and spoke something to the lieutenant. The man called out for the other marines to gather at attention, and they formed into obedient lines with their backs stiff and straight as boards.

"The enemy has opted for oblivion," Becket spoke loudly, coming to a pause before the lieutenant. This time she did hear his soft words, carried on the stirring wind. "Ready the fleet."

_"__To your stations!"_ the lieutenant called out. The order was repeated across the deck, and the crimson-and-gold coated marines scrambled to carry out their duties. Ona turned back to stare out over the water, and no matter how hard she tried otherwise, her gaze always returned to the dark silhouette of the _Dutchman._

Ona ignored the well-ordered chaos around her, not caring if she was in the way and figuring she would be ordered to leave if she was. She continued to watch the mist glide over the water, the breeze tossing loose strands of her hair across her face. She began to feel odd. Or maybe it was the air that felt odd. Charged with anticipation, vibrating with potential energy. As if the world was waiting with bated breath for something to begin.

Ona closed her eyes and stilled her thoughts, trying to focus, concentrate, see if she could pinpoint the origin of the change in the air. She had done this for Franklin on countless occasions, sensing storm patterns so the _Mariner_ could avoid the worst of them. With that thought, her heart ached, knowing when she opened her eyes it would not be Franklin's warm eyes she saw.

"Miss Sharp," she heard someone say with slight anxiety. Not Beckett, then. The lieutenant. "It would be safer if you waited below—"

She never did hear what he was going to say. One moment, she was listening intently to the song of the storm, and the next, a powerful current slammed into her so hard she was helpless to fight it. The overwhelming force washed over her skin, electric and consuming and terrifying.

And then just as quickly, it was gone.

Ona opened her eyes and wondered why she was lying on her back. She stared up into the sky, blinking rapidly as it quickly became shrouded in clouds. And then two objects blocked her view of the fading sunlight: tricorne hats worn on the heads of two men.

"She's all right, sir," stated the lieutenant, looking almost relieved.

"Good," Beckett answered, giving her an almost bored look. "Get her on her feet."

The lieutenant made to grab her arm, but he hesitated and then backed away when a startling sound escaped her lips.

It was laughter.

Beckett now stared down at her curiously, but she only gave him a smile of vicious pleasure. While they had been speaking, she had continued looking skyward, watching as dark clouds continued to converge from seemingly nowhere, blotting out the sun. The wind had begun to pick up, but it was no ordinary wind. She felt it as plainly as she felt her own mortal body.

"You are doomed, all of you," she said, the sharp smile still turned on Beckett. His expression, curious at first, began to form into something darker.

"I said _get her up_, Lieutenant," he snapped irritably. She felt hands encircle her arms and the man pulled her to her feet. As soon as she was steady, she tried to shake him off, but he held her fast. She didn't care; all of her attention was focused on Beckett, and he hadn't taken his eyes off of her either.

"What do you mean by 'doomed,' Miss Sharp?" he asked softly, attempting to regain his composure. Her wicked smile grew as the savage triumph expanded in her chest.

"It means you have lost," she said, her joy as dark as a midnight sea. "You just don't yet know it."

The lieutenant stared at her as if she were mad; Beckett merely gave a slight frown.

"So, the Brethren Court managed to free Calypso," he said. His eyes narrowed in thoughtfulness as he looked upward at the quickly hastening storm clouds. It took some of the victory out of her. He didn't even seem worried at the prospect of facing the wrath of a god. Was he truly that arrogant to believe Mother's power was so little compared to his?

"I suppose I won't be able to keep my word to Jones after all." This last he seemed to be saying more to himself than her, and then he lowered his head and gave her a curious look. "Lieutenant Groves," Beckett addressed the man still holding her. "Signal Jones to give no quarter. That should brighten his day."

"What about the woman?" he asked uneasily. But Beckett merely gave him an amused smirk.

"The woman is not a woman, but my orders are orders."

"Yes, sir."

Ona was released. She readjusted Norrington's coat around her shoulders, but otherwise said nothing as she continued her battle of wills against Beckett's unblinking gaze. He broke away first, giving her a small smile as he said, "Would you care for some tea, Miss Sharp?"

Her gaze narrowed and his smile widened, though not by much. All of his expressions were reserved, muted, and he always appeared to be holding back. It was his eyes that told a more truthful story than the rest of his features.

"I always take my tea this time of day, and it will make watching the battle that much more pleasant. Come."

He signaled for her to follow him, and she was glad he didn't do anything ridiculous like hold out his arm to her. If he had, she probably would have twisted it behind his back and broke it. Franklin frowned upon such acts of violence, as she well knew, but she had an inkling he would make an exception in this case.

Ona followed him to the space in front of the quarterdeck where she noticed servants setting out a tea table, complete with a cloth, a tea set, and two sets of chairs. Beckett sat down as the tea was being poured, and she could only stare at the decadence with a thin veneer of disgust.

"No?" he asked after she didn't move to join him at the table. "Suit yourself. I hope you will excuse me while I enjoy what little remaining time I have left, seeing that I'm a doomed man and all."

She would have loved nothing more than to wipe the smirk off his face by taking his tea table and chucking it over the gunwale, but Ona had learned to curb her impulses over the years. As satisfying as it would have been, being locked in the brig would do her no favors.

She turned away from Beckett and set her gaze across the line of ships until she spotted the _Dutchman_, at the head of the line and picking up speed. A single ship on the pirate side set a course to intercept it.

The wind picked up and she closed her eyes, feeling a shiver go up her spine. Even with her most of her powers stripped from her, Ona could feel the unbridled rage hidden beneath the rising storm.

The Mother of the Waters had finally been freed. So long had she heard stories of the sea goddess and how she had been bound to a human form. So many of Ona's kind had searched for the one they call Calypso, but she had never been found, and many had suspected she was dead.

She was reminded of Jones' cruel words, that Calypso had abandoned her children. There had been times when Ona had feared it was true, especially after her own body had been cursed and her sisters had been slaughtered. Mother had not come to save her from that barren strand of rocks in the middle of the sea.

It was a man who had saved her that day, and now it was men who would suffer her wrath. A prospect that would not have bothered her so long ago, but now…

Now all she could do was think about the fate of those aboard Jones' cursed ship.

Ona opened her eyes when she heard the flags snap in the rising wind. The clouds had grown darker, and as she raised her eyes upwards, she saw that they were beginning to swirl in a deadly rotation. Expecting to see the beginnings of a funnel sprout, she was shocked to see the opposite; the sea was receding in a bowl-shaped recession.

A maelstrom.

Lightning flashed within the clouds and she heard the first rumble of thunder several seconds later. Ran began to fall like tears of the Mother herself. Cold drops quickly drenched her hair and soaked her dress, but all Ona could do was turn her face upwards and close her eyes, sensing the longing and anguish and rage of the storm.

* * *

**_The beginning of this chapter made me really sad? I got so attached to Franklin and by the sound of it a lot of you did too._**

**_I love the chaotic energy Ona exudes when talking to Groves. I didnt plan any of that conversation ahead of time, it just kinda happened. Poor Groves has no idea how to handle her and neither do i tbh._**

**_Thank you again for all of your wonderful and amazing comments. I treasure them all._**


	25. Sparrow Song

"What're ye doin'?"

James didn't respond. He kept his eyes firmly shut, took a deep breath, and concentrated.

Nothing happened.

"Can ye hear me?" the irritating voice spoke again. "All right there, Jimmie?"

"Do_ not_ call me that," James said, scowling. "Be silent," he added.

Thankfully the voice obeyed, and James concentrated again. He focused on the space outside of the cell, imagined himself appearing there in the blink of an eye.

Again, nothing happened.

"Look," the voice spoke up, "I'm not one to begrudge a man for needin' a quick shut-eye, but I'm not sure this is the opportune moment to—"

James growled and said, "I'm _not _sleeping. I'm attempting something which requires my full attention. Now_ do_ stop talking."

Silence. A shuffling noise. A huff of breath. A tongue clicking against teeth.

James sighed heavily and opened his eyes. It wasn't working, and as much as he would have liked to blame the aggravating pirate standing behind him, he knew Sparrow wasn't the problem.

Reluctantly, he turned around to look at his other companion and admitted, "Jones and his men can move from one place to another with a simple thought. I was hoping I could do the same." _And put my unfortunate position to some good use,_ he thought bitterly.

"Ah, I see," Sparrow said, accepting the impossible idea impossibly fast. "Perhaps such abilities are within yer reach, but I imagine Jones is too slick to allow ye to just pop in and out of his cage whenever ye feel like it."

Sparrow had a point. Which, of course, put James in a foul mood.

"Now that's settled," Sparrow said pointedly, his eyes suddenly sparkling, "ye haven't explained your mysterious _she_ yet."

James rolled his eyes for the fifth time in so many minutes, releasing an irritated sigh. Sparrow had been hounding him for the better part of a half hour in regards to whom Turner had been referring to, as if that could possibly matter in their current predicament.

But the pirate wouldn't take "no" or "shut up" or "do you wish to be throttled?" as an answer.

"If I indulge your curiosity, will you _please_ be quiet and focus on escaping this cell?" he asked through gritted teeth. _Bloody Sparrow and his stupid bloody nosiness._

"I'm Captain Jack Sparrow, mate," he responded with an admonishing finger. "Bein' quiet and escapin' brigs are my specialty."

James closed his eyes, gathered what little patience remained to him, and opened them. The sight of Sparrow staring up at him with bright, curious eyes didn't improve the situation.

"Her name is Ona. She was the one who found me and pulled me out of the water after my… death. She and her captain saved my life." He turned away from Sparrow and gripped onto the cell bars so he could hold himself upright in the sudden rough waters, but also giving himself something to do so he didn't have to meet the pirate's eye. "And because of Jones, her ship was destroyed, her captain was murdered, and she was imprisoned along with me until she was turned over to Beckett's custody."

"So, she's the _she_," Sparrow responded satisfactorily. "Which means ye'll be savin' the she, yeah?"

James didn't respond, clenching his fingers tightly around the rotted iron bars.

"Ah. Perhaps ye have somethin' else in mind, then," Sparrow said, his tone a little too knowing.

"Do not concern yourself with what_ I_ have in mind," James snapped, sending the pirate a glare as he turned back around to face him. "Focus your attention on escaping this cell. As soon as possible would be preferable."

Sparrow, apparently, was unwilling to let it go.

"But then, what to do after our preferable escape?" he asked, grabbing onto the middle pillar so he could stand closer to James. "Do we flee into the hills, i.e. into the safety of the _Pearl's _bosom? Or," he asked, ignoring James' grimace, "or, and this is the plan I prefer, because I made it meself… Do I find the heart and give it a wee stab?"

James couldn't have stopped his shock from showing even if he'd tried. Sparrow's golden grin spread.

"So, that's the somethin' on your mind, innit? It's the somethin' on me own mind as well."

_"__You?"_ James stared at him hard, trying to find the jest in his statement. "You want to take over as captain of the _Flying_ _Dutchman_?"

Sparrow gave a careless shrug. "Eh, immortality doesn't sound so bad, does it? Especially when savin' the world is an immediate side benefit."

James couldn't get past the idea that Sparrow, of all people, wanted to ferry the souls of the dead into the next world. Unless he planned on ignoring his duties as Jones had, but James couldn't see the pirate being able to live with a face full of tentacles and other slimy unmentionables.

"Hardly," he said with a scoff. "With you as captain, I doubt the world would be a much safer place. I trust you as far as I can throw you."

With an impish grin, Sparrow said, "So… quite far, then?"

James huffed in frustration. "You _cannot _be the new captain."

"But it's in the title, mate," Sparrow responded with a small frown. "Unless… by yer immaculate glare, I take it ye already made plans to fill that vacancy. I mean, someone has to do it, and soon, if…" Sparrow waved a hand at James' chest, "yer extreme case of psoriasis is anything to go by. How do ye even know about the heart?" he asked before James could tell him where he could stick his own sword.

"I was stationed aboard this ship long enough to find out," he answered shortly, his eyes narrowed in extreme dislike. "I even possess the knowledge in regards to the location of the key and the chest."

_"__Well!"_ Sparrow got a sudden gleam in his eye that James did not like at all. "I'm all ears. And eyes, and other… various sensory organs."

"Not. On. Your. Life," James responded, enunciating each word very clearly through his gritted teeth. Sparrow gave him an almost pitying look, as if he wished they could be better friends. Or… friends.

"I like yer cousin better," he said wistfully. "Sensible man. Good head on his shoulders."

James frowned. He hadn't thought about his cousin and the connection to Sparrow in a long time, and with good reason. Any thoughts of Sparrow, especially memories involving his family and childhood, were tinged with such negativity he avoided them at all cost.

"Didn't Fitzwilliam betray you and try to turn you over to the Royal Navy?" he asked flatly.

"Ah, yeah. That he did," Sparrow said with a fond smile. "Still a more agreeable fellow than you. Look, mate," he interjected when James' scowl deepened into something that bespoke impending violence, "I know we've had our differences, but—"

"You stole my ship and got it _blown up!"_

"Commandeered. I _commandeered_ your ship," Sparrow corrected him, and then immediately backed away a few paces when James took a step toward him. "Ye can thank Barbossa for that. And to be fair, ye did try and have me hung. Hanged. Hanged-ed."

James gave a smile so humorless that Sparrow's expression of unease was almost comical.

"If we are on the topic of tallying grievances, then may I remind you that you also ruined my life, caused the death of my men, and lost me my commission?"

"Ah," Sparrow said, his voice and smile strangely subdued, "so it was I at the helm of yer ship what steered you into that hurricane?"

This time, James _did _lunge at Sparrow, but the wily bastard dodged and slipped out of his reach. James lost his footing on the ever-moving deck and hit the side of the cage, digging his fingers into the bars so he wouldn't fall.

He whipped his head around, expecting Sparrow to be on him with flying fists and kicking legs, but the coward merely hid behind the wooden column. Much as he had done at the tavern in Tortuga when James had threatened to end his life there too.

Tortuga, where James had truly descended into hell and misery. The memory filled him with a fury so dark he could almost feel it blotting out the light of the swaying lanterns. James bared his teeth and growled:

"You are a noxious, vile, larcenous, lice-ridden _sonofawhore—"_

"Oi!" Sparrow yelled indignantly, real anger flashing in his eyes. "Ye can insult me all ye like, but speak an ill word about me mum and I'll make ye start cryin' for your own. Got it?"

James didn't attack again, instead blinking as if the sun were in his eyes. The darkness receded and he had the decency to feel a flush of shame. He didn't know Sparrow's mother, but he had never spoken ill of a woman in his life and never intended to. It seemed the new James Norrington was becoming someone capable of all sorts of unkind thoughts and deeds.

What would come next, he wondered.

Perhaps some of his internal anguish played on his features, because Sparrow's next words were less inflammatory.

"Let me do this."

James looked up at the pirate, caught off-guard by his unusually somber tone. His eyes were dark, for once not glittering with roguish humor.

"Let me worry about Jones. I take care of him, and you focus yer energy on savin' yer bonnie lass from the clutches of that grubby little… man-boy," Sparrow added with a look of slight disgust. A fair expression for anyone who had tangled with Lord Beckett more than once.

James looked down toward the deck, once again shamed and even humbled by Sparrow's sobering and fairly rational case. But it didn't stop him from pointing out, "How do I know you won't be as cruel a captain as Jones? How do I know I won't be forced to suffer even more… humiliations?"

"For one, I'm not that slimy tentacle-faced git," Sparrow said with full confidence, now moving in front of the crusted column and leaning against it. "And for another, which I doubt ye'll believe, but… I don't hate you, mate. I don't even dislike you."

Sparrow neglected to see the glare focused his way, and continued on.

"Even now, in your new position as…" Sparrow waved at him vaguely, "… Admiral Fish Man, I've grown rather fond of yer sultry demeanor."

James scoffed, raising his eyes to the ceiling before answering, "You're right. I don't believe that."

Sparrow rolled his tongue across his teeth, staring at James with that serious look again.

"And there's a third point in my favor. You owe me."

"Excuse me?" James asked dryly.

"You owe me. Or, more accurately, you owe me dad. Or have ye forgotten?"

Dread dropped like a stone in his stomach. No. James had indeed not forgotten, and never would.

When James neglected to speak, Sparrow continued with his diatribe.

"Dislike me all ye want. Hate pirates until the end of time. But ye can't deny what happened that day. Nor how yer own father treated you because of it. I'm thinkin'… his attitude is more than likely responsible for yer, in my most humble opinion, unreasonable unfriendliness toward me and mine."

It took every ounce of willpower James had at his disposal to not lunge at Sparrow once more, and he curled his hands into fists to give them something to do that didn't involve wrapping around the pirate's throat.

But he did send Sparrow a glare, warning him to stop speaking. And per usual, the self-involved pirate ignored it.

"Puttin' all these pieces together, I believe I've made a very compelling argument. But let's say… that's not enough to convince you of my sincerity. So the last point I wish to make, is this. I've thought long 'n hard about what it means to be the captain of a glorified cargo ship of the dead. It's not quite on the beam, but I've made my peace with it. Can ye say the same?"

Sparrow eyed James closely, scrutinizing his face, suddenly not so self-absorbed.

"Are ye willing to take on the burden of bein' trapped on this ship for nigh eternity? Only returning to land once every ten years?"

James gave a scoff that sounded too much like a bitter chuckle.

"I'm not exactly leaving anything behind, am I?"

Sparrow's eyes narrowed, his eyes a little too sharp.

"What about yer bonnie lass? The one who saved yer life?"

"What about her," James stated in a flat yet vaguely warning tone.

Sparrow shrugged with one shoulder and pretended to be scrutinizing his nails.

"Are ye willing to say goodbye to her forever after ye so heroically save her from Beckett's evil ways?"

"What business is that of yours?" he growled out, some of his control slipping. Sparrow always had a way of getting under his skin, and this time was no exception.

"It's me business because convincing ye to drop this act of bloody senseless martyrdom is in me best interest."

The pirate's expression slowly changed, his eyes darkening as his mouth set into a grim line. James was once again struck by how serious and intense he could be, and it made him wonder if all those times Sparrow had escaped by a dog's hair if it had less to do with sheer luck and more to do with actual cleverness.

"Between you and me, ye've got at least one thing to look forward to. And what do I have waitin' for me? After all of this, ye think I'll be settled with goin' back to drownin' in rum, pillagin' sleepy burgs, and relievin' careless ships of their cargo, the value of which barely covers the cost of feeding me crew?"

Sparrow waved a hand dismissively.

"Trifles compared to life as the immortal Captain Jack Sparrow. And then you can go back to being Admiral No-Longer-A-Fish-Man Norrington. Sounds good, eh?"

"If I agree to this, will it shut you up?" he asked dully. Desperately, really, trying not to dwell on Sparrow's words. Because never would James have guessed that _Sparrow_ had become discontent with his life. But that's exactly what it sounded like. In fact, the pirate had been oddly frank with him this entire conversation, and James found it quite… disturbing.

"It'll get me to shut up all the time!" Sparrow responded jovially. But then he paused thoughtfully and said, "'cept for once every ten years when I go ashore and catch up with me best mate Jimmie. And Jimmie'll bring his swarm of ankle biters, of which there should be at least five else I'll be disappointed, and the little brats can finally meet their legendary immortal Pirate Lord Uncle Jack."

_Oh, my God,_ James thought as he rubbed his forehead, feeling a headache coming on despite the fact it shouldn't be possible for him to even _have_ a headache.

Aloud, he simply scoffed, as if to dismiss the nonsense coming out of Sparrow's mouth. But he could feel his resolve slipping. James didn't_ want_ to be captain, not of this ship at any rate. In fact, if he never saw the _Dutchman_ again he could die a happy man.

But still… he was resentful and angry that Sparrow would even suggest that there was any sort of… unidentifiable, malleable future that included Ona. Why would she want anything to do with him now? He'd ruined her life. Not unlike how Sparrow had ruined his.

And then he thought, no, that wasn't entirely truthful. The pirate couldn't be blamed for all of James' misfortunes, Sparrow was right about that. Everything that had happened to Ona in the past few days, however, solely rested on _his_ shoulders. And James didn't see how he could earn her forgiveness, or if he deserved the chance to try.

But… he could undo some of the damage he had caused. He could make amends. Isn't that what he had told her he wished to do?

"Fine, _fine_. I yield," James relented unhappily.

"Splendid!" Sparrow announced while rubbing his palms together. "Now do us a teensy favor and tell us where the chest and key are, and Bob's your uncle, Fanny's your aunt, we'll get this ship transferred to her right proper owner."

James opened his mouth, but before he could respond, the ship tilted at an alarming angle and they both went sideways into the barnacled hull. Sparrow yelped in pain, but James hardly felt anything. He saw why when he looked down. Dark green scales now covered the backs of his hands, sticking out under his shirt sleeves.

_Wonderful._

"We need to leave, now!" James yelled, pulling his shirt sleeves over his hands. "Should you have any ideas, by all means, do share!"

"I've got plenty of ideas," Sparrow responded, rubbing his shoulder where it had slammed into a cluster of mollusks. "Just not sure they're applicable to our current conundrum—"

A booming echo overwhelmed whatever Sparrow said after that. James' gut clenched with unease.

"Those were the bow guns," he said with a frown. "But whom are we firing upon?"

"Let's not wait around to find out, eh?" Sparrow said with an unusual amount of focus and determination. He began to pace around the cell, unsteady as he went. And then he began talking to himself, Sparrow's eyes distant and unfocused as he mumbled under his breath.

They didn't have time for this.

"For God's sake, Sparrow!" James snapped, fighting to remain on his feet as the deck swayed. "You've done this before!"

"Eh?" Sparrow asked, raising his head to stare at him blankly.

"Fort Charles?" James said, his voice tight with frustration. "Turner engineered your escape, didn't he? How did he break open that cell door?"

Sparrow looked away from James and began to mutter to himself again. He did this for long enough that James' frustration was overshadowed with concern, and he leaned in closer to hear what the pirate was saying.

_"__Half-pin barrel hinges."_ The phrase was spoken over and over with the reverence of a prayer, but it made no sense to James.

"What?" he asked in a low voice, trying not to startle him. Sparrow didn't look particularly well in that moment, and when Sparrow snapped around to face him, James took a step back.

Sparrow blinked, as if just now noticing him, and then he said, "Leverage."

And without any further explanation, he rushed to an empty barrel in the corner, put it on its side against the cell door, and then grabbed the crusted bench and tried to uproot it.

Not understanding what the pirate was up to, but seeing he couldn't do it alone, James grabbed the other side of the bench. Sparrow gave him a surprised yet happy expression, and James felt almost… tolerant towards him.

They pulled hard and the rotted wood came away from the hull with a wet, cracking noise. Once the bench had been ripped away it now resembled a simple plank. James didn't know what use that could be, but Sparrow took the piece and guided it onto the barrel, at which point James just stood back and watched.

Sparrow jammed one end between the cell bars, pressed down hard on the other, and…

The entire door came free and fell to the ground with a hollow _clang_. Sparrow stepped through, spun around, and gave a rather pleased grin that, James had to admit, was fairly deserved.

"That's how you did it," James responded, grudgingly impressed.

"Smart boy, that William." Sparrow immediately grimaced and added, "Don't… tell him I said that."

"I'm unsure we'll live long enough for me to do so," James responded acidly as he followed him out of the cell.

"And now…" Sparrow not-so-subtly blocked his way, his expression regaining its natural roguish quality. "About a man with a chest and a heart and a key…"

James couldn't stop his eyes from rolling, but he had given his word. And for that to have meaning again, he'd have to start keeping it.

"The chest is in the captain's quarters, guarded by two swivel guns," James explained, eyeing Sparrow sharply. "Do refrain from killing the men guarding it. They're simply following orders."

"Done. And by done, I mean, _not _to be killed," Sparrow explained hurriedly when James gave him a cold glare. "Next?"

"The key is hidden on a string that Beckett's man, Ian Mercer, keeps around his neck." He lowered his voice and said, "Him you may have to kill, because he'll surely be trying to kill you in return. That is, if Jones doesn't get to you first. And I can only imagine what manner of evil he'll bestow upon you."

The disgusted look on Sparrow's face was amusing but also relatable, and James was suddenly glad he wouldn't be the one to try to retrieve those specific items.

"Perfect. Purloinin' hearts and not killin' hapless souls, also my specialty," Sparrow said with an impish grin. Then he leaned forward, his face suddenly too close to James as he said, "I knew ye would make the right choice."

Both repulsed by his breath and close proximity, James back away, but Sparrow had already turned and was walking briskly toward the door. But before he left the brig, he gleefully shouted over one shoulder:

"Five ankle biters, mate! Don't let me down!"

James could only shake his head and roll his eyes, wondering how on God's green earth he had landed himself in a situation where he was allied with Jack Sparrow. Then again, it hadn't been the strangest thing to happen to him in the past week.

Not wishing to wait for Sparrow to take down Jones' single-handedly, James made his way up through the hold, across the steerage, and up the steep stairs that poured down with rainwater like a miniature waterfall. Squinting and shielding his hand against the spray of storm and sea, James widened his eyes when he caught sight of the chaos on deck.

He had just enough time to see Jones' crew working together with Company marines to keep the ship from being ripped apart by the storm when cannons boomed. James hit the deck as hulls and bulkheads splintered and exploded around him.

It lasted for several seconds, and when he had the chance, he looked up across the tilted deck—directly across a massive, gaping whirlpool to a ship on the other side. Even from this distance, he knew that vessel, with its black sails and dark hull.

The _Black Pearl._

_"__Prepare to board!"_

Mercer's voice had shouted into the violent wind, but it was followed by an explosion and the cries of men as a cannon fire ripped through the quarterdeck. James couldn't hear but he could see an exchange between Jones and Mercer, and it quickly turned deadly as the captain grabbed the man with his claw and began to smother his face in tentacles.

James had to look away when the slimy appendages entered Mercer's eyes and mouth, his stomach roiling. He'd always distrusted Mercer, always finding himself uneasy when he was around the sly, dark-clothed man. But it was a horrific death he wouldn't have wished on anyone.

However, James did look back in time to see Jones pluck the key from Mercer's collapsing corpse. And when he descended the stairs toward the main deck, James was suddenly seized with fear that Jones was going to spot his poor hiding place.

Fortunately at that very moment, Jack Sparrow appeared on deck, holding the chest by one handle, and nearly walked right into Jones. Both captains stopped, took a step back, and then Jones began to laugh. His crew converged around him, leering with misshapen faces.

"Lookee here, boys. A lost bird," Jones mused with a cold grin as he and his crewmen crept forward toward the pirate. "A lost bird that never learned to fly."

Sparrow smiled as he too backed away, his expression almost nervous as he said, "To my great regret."

James was torn. This would give him the perfect opportunity to attempt to escape while the captain was distracted, but even Sparrow couldn't best a dozen cursed men—

But then he saw he needn't worry. James watched with faint amusement as Jones was about to get a taste of the frustration that had so often plagued James when he had had the pirate just within his grasp.

Sparrow jumped onto the railing, gripped a clewline, said, "But! Never too late to learn, eh?" and hit a lever with the chest which sent him hurtling into the air. The pirate disappeared into the mainmast, and with a vicious snarl, Jones vanished as well.

"Thank you, Jack Sparrow," James muttered under his breath. That got Jones out of the way, and now his men were grabbing onto ropes and swinging across the watery chasm toward the _Pearl_, with the_ Pearl's_ crew doing the same. The air was suddenly filled with monsters and pirates, many of them colliding or knocking each other astray in the middle, and then they passed through to the ships on the opposite sides.

James ducked out of sight as members of the _Pearl_ landed on deck. The last thing he needed was to cross swords with pirates when he had more important matters to attend to. Ascending the stairs to the fo'c'sle deck, he gripped the barnacled railing hard to keep on firm foot and not fall overboard. The rain made it almost impossible to see, but he raised his head and gazed up, away from the _Pearl,_ toward the rim of the maelstrom.

Not having any true idea of what he was doing, James narrowed his focus onto that edge of churning water while expanding his thoughts outward to envision the _Endeavor._ He also recalled the feeling when Jones had yanked him across space without them ever truly moving, and as he did, he felt a tingling across the back of his neck.

Seizing onto that feeling, James concentrated on the image of Beckett's flagship as forcefully as he could. He released the railing, shut his eyes tight, and _pushed._

He was suddenly flying through air, or rather through water, the strange sensation causing his stomach to flip upside down again and again like a stone down a mountainside. Then he came to an abrupt stop, opened his eyes and mouth…

…and breathed in a lungful of seawater.

* * *

_**jack and franklin are the biggest Norrona shippers**_


	26. Choosing A Side

_**Im sorry this took a while to post, it was an important chapter and i wanted to make sure i got it right. thank you y'all are the best**_

* * *

Ona's heart plunged in tandem with the cursed ship as she watched it race onward and disappear over the edge of the maelstrom. She took a half-step forward, stopped, and glanced over her shoulder.

Lord Beckett was watching her with amused interest. He no longer sat at the table since the deluge had ruined his teatime, but he was still on deck, shrouded in a thick jacket that kept off the rain. Ona was afforded no such thing, and had to rely on Norrington's coat to keep the stinging cold water at bay.

Shivering as she drew the coat tighter across her chest, Ona looked to the maelstrom once more as the boom of cannons echoed across the stormy waters. Even through the howling wind and the sound of heavy drops beating against the wood deck and canvas sails, it was still quite audible and filled her with foreboding. The second ship must have joined the _Dutchman_, as she could see the top of two mainmasts above the maelstrom edge.

The reckless abandon it must have taken to commit such an act was unfathomable to her, and the captains of both ships were mad to even attempt sailing into Calypso's wrath, let alone battle within its twisting abyss.

"Soon, the _Dutchman _will have her prey and the_ Pearl_ will be naught but debris at the bottom of the sea," Beckett spoke up to be heard above the torrential downpour. "Appropriate, considering this is not the first time I have sunk that particular vessel beneath the ocean waves. It's a shame the captain won't go down with his ship," he added with a cruel smirk.

She didn't know what he meant, but she suspected that was the idea. Beckett seemed of the belief he knew more than those around him, and he was not averse to showing it.

"When this is over, I get Jones," Ona said, keeping her voice as unfeeling as stone. It felt the wiser choice to make him believe she cared only about Jones' death and held no interest in a particular person aboard Jones' ship.

Beckett gave a faint smile but kept his eyes forward toward the ever-churning maelstrom.

"Telling you how to kill Jones was a show of good faith on my part. Giving you the _opportunity_ to kill Jones is contingent on you offering me something in return."

"What would you have me give?" she asked outright, not interested in Beckett's games and simply wanting the truth spoken aloud. "My freedom, I suppose." _Or perhaps my heart,_ she thought darkly. _Carved out and handed to you on a silver platter, where you can keep it in a chest. Just like Jones._

"Partnership."

Ona turned to look at him and found he was already staring at her, that light smile touching his lips as if they were conversing over tea and not through a violent storm.

"Do you believe I wish to make you my servant? I don't."

He spoke so quietly she had to lean in and concentrate on his soft voice. It put her in a proximity that was too close for her liking, but she had little choice if she wished to hear him over the wind tugging at their clothing and the rain dashing against the wood.

"I do not want you at my beck and call. Nor do I wish to control you. What I want, nay, what I _need _is a partner with equal share in the stakes. Which means they also have an equal share in the risks and rewards. I want someone who cooperates out of their own self-interest, not because I must threaten them at every turn. A partnership, Miss Sharp.

"It's just… good business," he added with the smallest curl of his lips. Such a tiny gesture, but one that sent a cold chill up her spine.

"What say you to my proposal?" Beckett asked when she remained silent.

"I haven't yet made up my mind," she responded shortly, looking away from him and back toward the center of the storm.

In truth, she hadn't. She would have to be a fool to trust this man, but that did not mean allying with him wasn't the right choice. It might even be the only choice. If she did refuse his offer, where would she go after? Ona had a very particular set of skills that had benefited her during her years trapped as a human, but most men were not as kind and accepting as Franklin. The possibility that she could crew aboard another ship was nonexistent.

She would have to lie about what she was and be seen as a mortal woman, fit only for birthing and raising children. And considering Ona had never heard of her kind successfully producing offspring with humans, she would be worth even less in the eyes of men.

But Beckett did not see her that way. However he meant to use her, he saw her as valuable and said he would give her life meaning again. If his purpose was true, to save the lives of those crossing the sea, how could she possibly decline?

Ona wrapped the coat around her in cold misery. She wished Franklin was there.

"Norrington."

The name left her lips before she could think better of it. Beckett glanced at her with his eyes narrowed.

"Something you wish to ask, Miss Sharp?" he spoke, his words as careful as if they were made of glass.

"What will become of him after I kill Jones?"

"You mean to say, when you agree to my terms," he corrected with a slight smirk.

Ona didn't respond, unable to even meet his eye as his self-satisfaction sent a wave of loathing through her. She kept her gaze firmly on the deck, watching as sheets of rain and seawater mixed and churned across the wood.

"With Jones dead, I imagine the crew, including my former admiral, will be released from the arcane spell holding them bound to the ship."

All attempts to appear ambivalent went up in smoke when she jerked her head upward, staring at him in open dismay.

"He… would be freed of the curse?"

Beckett studied her face, his pale eyes drinking in her features as if they sustained him somehow, but she was too engrossed by his words to care how he looked at her.

"It is only my estimation, but yes. I do believe he would be rid of the curse that is now afflicting him."

Ona had to grip the railing as the rough waves caused the ship to slightly dip and roll, and she used the moment to break eye contact and gather her thoughts. She was still distrustful of Norrington and she owed him nothing. No, no, if anything, _he_ owed _her_. She would not sell her own freedom just to save Norrington's life.

_What about his soul?_

Ona paused at the words her conscience had spoken. A small voice in the back of her mind that would speak in moments of indecision. It always sounded like Franklin, her voice of reason in life, and now also apparently in death.

_But you're not here, Franklin,_ she thought morosely, her heart panging with an ache she suspected would never completely heal. _You're gone. And I must do this alone, without your guidance and without your help._

Ona turned toward the quarterdeck only to make it two steps before Beckett asked, "Where are you going?"

"To the privy," she responded with what she hoped was the right amount of irritation. He didn't speak immediately, so she was forced to stand there in the pouring rain, waiting for his permission to leave.

"Very well," Beckett finally answered. "But do not dawdle, Miss Sharp, or you'll miss the battle." She could hear the amusement in his voice as he added, "I do not think it will last very long."

Ona continued forward and retreated into the shelter of the quarterdeck. She did not turn toward the head, but walked straight into the captain's quarters. There were no marines here—Beckett had called all hands on deck, giving her the moment she needed to approach the display case she had spied earlier.

It was locked, but there was a handy letter opening she had spotted on Beckett's desk before, and she grabbed it now. There was no time to be delicate; Ona jammed the high-quality letter opener into the space between the lid and the case. With a hard brace of her palm and using her weight, she broke the lock and popped the lid open, wincing as some of the wood cracked and splintered.

After glancing up to be sure she had not alerted anyone to her actions, she reached into the case and carefully pulled out the scrimshaw dirk. The stormy grey light from the windows glimmered across its polished, deadly surface.

The perfect weapon to plunge into a cursed heart.

Ona also picked up its scabbard, which was plain and made of dark unpolished wood, and then she carefully closed the lid and returned the letter opener to Beckett's desk. With a final look toward the door, she slipped the dirk into its scabbard and then placed it deep within her dress pocket.

She almost made it back to the deck, merely inches away from the door when a pair of arms grabbed her from behind. It must have been a marine, one who had seen her stealing Beckett's dirk, but that didn't stop her from crying out in rage, kicking with her legs to throw off her captor.

The sound was immediately smothered by a large hand cupped over her mouth, and she was lifted entirely off her feet and dragged backwards into a darkened alcove.

Ona was just about to open her mouth, prepared to bite down on flesh and sinew to free herself, when she was whirled around and pinned against the wall. The hand remained on her mouth, and the nearby lamplight was just bright enough to illuminate the face of her attacker.

He was no marine.

She froze—a full-body lock that left her breathless and immobile. When he saw she wasn't going to scream, the palm over her mouth was removed.

Ragged, panting, and drenched in seawater with scales covering most of his neck, James Norrington somehow stood before her in the dark hallway of Beckett's ship.

"What…_ what _are you doing here?" she hissed through harsh gasps, trying to catch her breath as her heart raced in her chest. Her limbs were slightly trembling, caused by the distress of his chosen manner of getting her attention.

Norrington blinked, apparently taken aback by her less-than-grateful demeanor.

"Rescuing you," he answered in a low voice, glancing toward the hallway before looking back at her. "We must leave, quickly."

_"__Leave?"_

If she could have backed away from him she would have, but the hallway was so narrow she couldn't move, trapped between the wall and Norrington's chest. It made her temper flare all the more.

"Why would I go _anywhere _with you after you bargained me to Beckett?"

Norrington's brows creased with hard confusion.

_"__What?_ No, no I didn't, Ona. I swear—"

She scoffed and averted her gaze, wanting to look anywhere but at him. A part of her was reeling from the fact that he had somehow escaped the _Dutchman_ and was here, alive and still himself. It had happened against all odds and should have been seen as nothing short of miraculous.

But Ona couldn't move past the memory of Jones telling her that she would be betrayed. Of the man in black telling her that she _was_ betrayed. Of Beckett confirming Norrington had turned on her.

"You must believe me, I—"

_"__Believe you?"_

She glared thunder at him, her temper flaring so fiercely it felt like an extension of the storm outside.

"If it wasn't for _you,_ if I had _never_—"

She was too angry to even speak. Here was the man she had argued clemency for, the man she had _defended _when Franklin had wanted to throw him overboard, only for her to find out he was a betrayer and a liar. And he had the audacity to ask _her_ for her trust?

"I know it was you who gave Jones' heart to Beckett." She spoke the words in a seething tone, cruelly satisfied when the admiral's eyes widened and his face paled. "You betrayed your companions for the promise of prestige. How can you expect me to trust you? To ever believe a word you say?"

The expression on his face took the pleasure out of her verbal blow. Norrington looked beaten, broken, and he dropped his gaze as if too ashamed to look her in the eye. He didn't look like a man who was proud of his actions. He looked like a man whose actions had cost him everything.

"You can't," he finally answered, slowly raising his eyes to meet hers, the sorrow in them devastating. "But I'm asking you to."

The soft anguish in his voice was too much to bear with a hardened heart, and she could feel cracks form in her erected, barricaded walls.

But Ona didn't want to let him slip past her defenses. She didn't want to be convinced of his sincerity and give him a chance. She didn't want any of it. All she wanted was Jones dead; nothing else mattered beyond that.

And yet…

Ona was noticing once more how close they were, wedged together in the cramped space, and she could practically _feel _each breath he took. She had nowhere to look but at him, and that certainly wasn't helping matters. She stared at the scaled flesh on his chest beneath the half-open coat and shirt. She observed his unshaven jaw, studied his parted lips, and then gazed intently into his eyes, darkened from sea-green to midnight emerald by the dim light.

He was still waiting for an answer; she was too caught up in his distracting presence to formulate a response.

_Norrington came for me,_ she belatedly realized. She didn't understand why he had done such a thing, had risked everything just to find her, but perhaps in the moment her understanding was irrelevant.

What was it that Beckett had said? _Trust actions, not words, and you will understand people better than they understand themselves._

"Is that…"

His voice brought Ona back to the present, her confused thoughts tumbling away like seawater on a scrubbed hull. When she looked up at him again, Norrington was staring at her with a strange, intense expression on his face.

"…my coat?"

Ona had just opened her mouth to answer when two musket muzzles moved forward into her field of vision. They both turned their heads to see a pair of marines pointing the long guns directly at their faces.

"Come out of there, the both of you," one of them commanded in an angry, wavering tone.

Ona glanced at Norrington with a warning look before obeying, leaving the hallway ahead of him. She moved slowly so the marine wouldn't mistake her intentions and stab her through the skull with his bayonet. The man looked prepared to do it, the hard shine of fear in his eyes one she had seen many times before.

Beckett was waiting for them in the foyer, and she pinched her lips together at the sight of his amused smirk. He was surrounded on both sides by marines with their muskets pointed at the pair, and the lieutenant was standing beside him. Groves' expression was wide in shock as he looked past her to his former commander.

"I see you lost your way to the privy. And Mister Norrington seems to have wandered onto my ship without an invitation."

They said nothing in response. She could feel the loathing practically radiating off of Norrington in waves, and she glanced at him again, watching for signs that he was going to do anything foolish. But he remained still, his sea-green eyes narrowed as his jaw clenched firm.

"Nothing to say for yourselves? Very well. Bring them on deck."

Hands grabbed Ona by the arms and dragged her through the double doors. She went without protest, having learned long ago the value of patience and restraint. She only hoped Norrington would follow her lead and not give in to any reckless or violent impulses he might be feeling due to the curse.

Then again, Ona had a strong impulse to throw Beckett overboard and she had no such curse to blame.

The cold water on her face was a shock, and her composure was temporarily thwarted as she sputtered icy rainwater out of her mouth. The storm was in full force now—lightning flashing around them as the wind ripped at the rolled sails and the rigging. The sheets of rain were so thick that she could no longer see what was happening at the maelstrom.

They were forced to the middle of the deck before the mainmast, held apart while Beckett paced between them, apparently unbothered by the storm.

"You have placed me in a difficult position, Mister Norrington," he spoke loudly to be heard over the wind. "I promised you to Jones, and yet here you are. Attempting to kidnap a guest of the Company."

"You mean I'm here to liberate your hostage," Norrington said stiffly, gazing past Beckett as if he wasn't worth his attention. But Beckett was looking at Norrington with great interest. His golden waistcoat was dark with water and his white linen shirt was almost transparent, clinging to his arms where the green scales had quite visibly progressed down to his wrists.

The marines seemed disturbed by the abnormality—Groves most of all. His eyes flicked from Beckett to Norrington, his face bloodless and fearful.

Beckett looked around with feigned surprise.

"Hostage? Indeed not. Miss Sharp, after I freed you from your shackles have I ever bound you in any way? Misused you or treated you ill?"

Ona stared at him but didn't answer, hoping she could stall for time as she tried to figure a way out of this situation.

Beckett's smirk faded into a light frown, and he stepped toward her.

"Am I to take it from your silence that you are displeased with my actions and wish to retract our deal?"

"Deal?" Norrington looked between the two of them, brows creased in a severe line. "What deal? What is he talking about?"

Ona felt a drop in her stomach, and the sensation only increased when Beckett turned on Norrington with his eyes narrowed unpleasantly.

"The deal where Miss Sharp offers her knowledge and expertise of sea navigation in exchange for a place aboard this ship. I'm offering her a new home. A new life. A place to belong. Seeing as her last ship was destroyed because of your ill-fated presence onboard, I thought I would take it upon myself to… make amends."

Ona dropped her gaze, stray strands of wet hair falling into her face. She wasn't trying to stall for time now.

"Ona?"

She nearly flinched at Norrington's soft, desperate plea.

"I didn't ask you to come," she said, her voice sounding brittle as she refused to look up at him. It would have been so much easier if Norrington had just abandoned her. She had planned to find Jones on her own, slay him, and deal with Beckett afterwards. Simple and clean, if it was only she who faced the potential consequences. But now she had to factor Norrington into this dangerous game, and the guilt of it angered her.

She had never asked to be saved.

Beckett must have given some unspoken signal to his men, because the marines holding her arms released her. She slightly stumbled, forced to regain her balance and footing as the ship continued to sway underneath them in the storm.

"I never wanted this to happen," she heard Norrington say, and she raised her head only high enough to see his face. His expression hurt her in ways she could not have anticipated. He looked as if his very heart was breaking, and Ona felt something within her might be breaking as well.

"I never wanted anyone to be harmed. I—"

"But they were," Beckett interrupted him. Loud waves pounded against the hull and splashed over the edge of the gunwale, as if in agreement with his words.

"Please, believe me, Ona. I never brokered a deal with him, I never betrayed you. Beckett is a liar and you cannot believe a word he says!"

"Because you are so trustworthy yourself?" Beckett responded with a sneer. "You believed rescuing Captain Swann and her pirate ilk was enough to redeem you of your selfish actions, and here you are again, believing you can repair what is far too late to mend. The damage you leave in your wake is categorically impressive, Mister Norrington. It's a wonder any of your companions have survived the tragedy of your friendship."

The words were hard, cruel, and inflicted without mercy. But Norrington seemed to ignore them, seemed to ignore the man entirely as he stared at Ona. And she, in turn, was unable to break away from his sea-green gaze.

"He will use you until there is nothing left. And then, when you're no longer of value to his ambition, he will discard you." He spoke to her if Beckett and the marines with their muskets were not even there. As if there was only her. "What Beckett has said about me is true. And I will bear the consequences of those truths. Whatever happens to me is well-deserved, but you are not meant for this. Do not make the mistake I made and believe that man represents a second chance. He will be your downfall, just as he was mine. _Do not let him."_

Ona had nearly forgotten they weren't alone, so consumed by him that all else had fallen away, and she almost jumped when Beckett spoke.

"James Norrington, how very noble of you," he said in a deeply disparaging tone. "Forever playing the role of romantic martyr. I suppose it does suit you, after a fashion."

He nodded to the marines and they grabbed Norrington roughly, preparing to drag him back toward the quarterdeck. They didn't get very far—he lashed out and fought hard enough that the men had to brace themselves to keep ahold of him.

_"__Do not listen to him!"_ Norrington shouted to her, his face taut with fear. _"He will take too much from you!"_

As he struggled against his captors, Ona caught sight of something. It was a small thing, insignificant to anyone else, but to her it made the world go quiet and still. It fluttered in the storm-driven wind, holding Norrington's hair in place.

A black ribbon, edged in white.

It was as if Franklin was there with her, standing by her side, smiling in the way that made the corners of his eyes crease. And she remembered the two words he had mouthed to her moments before his death.

_Trust him._

She hadn't grasped the meaning of his words then. They had made no sense, held no context, but now…

Now, Ona understood what she must do.


	27. The Game

_"__Beckett!"_

James ceased struggling when he heard Ona's shout. He looked over his shoulder but couldn't comprehend what he was seeing. After the marines fully turned him around, he still couldn't interpret the scene:

Ona was standing behind Groves, one hand gripping his upper arm while the other held a long dirk held tight across his throat. Her eyes were narrowed and her features as cold as the rain that soaked James to the bone. But it was not the rain that caused him to shiver.

"Release Norrington," she ordered in a commanding tone. "Or I'll cut his throat."

"You are many things, Miss Sharp," Beckett said as he took two methodical steps forward, his hands behind his back, "but I believe a cold-blooded murderer is not one of them."

"Then you are a fool," she responded icily. "Was last night's demonstration not enough?"

Beckett merely smiled at whatever she was referring to. "Making threats is hardly the same as taking a man's life. Especially a man who has done you no ill and is innocent of any wrongdoing."

"Innocent?" she asked in a mocking, cruel tone James had never heard before. "He is your right hand man. That makes him complicit with your misdeeds, at the very least."

Beckett took another step forward. Ona released Groves arm and gripped the bottom of his jaw instead, pulling his head back to further expose his throat to the blade. The lieutenant made a sharp, fearful noise, but her dread expression never changed.

Beckett stopped walking. James couldn't see his face, but he could see the line of tension in the slope of his shoulders.

"I will not ask again," she said, low and threatening. "Release Norrington or your man dies."

"I don't believe you," Beckett responded coolly. Groves' eyes widened.

"S-sir, I don't think—"

Groves' words were cut short as Ona braced the dirk against his throat, and he made another fearful sound as a thin line of red appeared on his neck, quickly turning to pink as rainwater mixed with blood.

But James couldn't take his eyes off of Ona, unable to think or feel anything other than growing disbelief at what she was doing. At first, he had thought this was a foolish, desperate gambit. But he could see now she wasn't bluffing.

"I'm sure you remember the tale of a ship called the _Intrepid_ that made port in Nassau over three decades ago. You do, don't you, Lord Beckett?" she asked stonily, her blue eyes now as dark and dangerous as the storm.

"I do," Beckett responded evenly. "What has that to do with—"

"As the story goes, the ship was sacked by an especially vicious band of pirates," she continued, her voice strong above the wind. "Most of the crew, including the captain, was slaughtered on deck. They said it resembled the floor of a butchery. They couldn't get the blood out of the wood and ended up having to burn the ship. It was the worst attack on a merchant vessel the West Indies had ever seen."

Despite the chaotic wind and rain around them, the sound of cannonade in the distance, James was captured by her storytelling. He could see the other men were as well. Even Beckett had fallen silent, focused intently on her face.

"There were only three survivors. Franklin Sharp, a cabin boy…"

Ona paused, and for an instant her eyes flicked to James. There was something in them he didn't recognize, but before he could interpret the look, she turned her cold gaze back to Beckett, boring straight through him.

"And me."

Beckett scoffed.

"Hardly. Three young_ men_ survived the massacre. And besides that, this was before your time. You are far too young to have been there."

"The _Intrepid_ found me at sea," she continued, once again ignoring Beckett's words, "and the captain learned I wasn't quite human. That I was _unnatural_," she spit out the word with such venom that Groves flinched. "What did the cowards do after that? They tried to _burn_ me and _hang_ Franklin."

Her tone dropped, and she made a show of slowly gazing at all the men gathered, her expression full of disgust and loathing.

"They were unprepared. Because even though they knew I wasn't a woman, I still looked like a woman, and that was enough. I butchered every last one of them, most before they could even lift a sword. And I will do the same to you and your men. Without hesitation."

Beckett was, for once, without any clever words. And James felt something like a hard stone in the pit of his belly. He felt numb, his throat tight with dread, and his mind kept trying to deny what was happening.

Surely she was lying to intimidate Beckett into fulfilling her demands. She had been through a great ordeal in the past few hours; Ona had been pushed into this desperate ploy of telling outlandish tales and threatening to harm good men.

Yes, he decided firmly, that's why she was doing this. It was the only thing that made sense. The marines, however, seemed to have bought the fable of unimaginable bloodshed, because they all shifted uneasily on their feet, their eyes wide and their knuckles white on the barrels of their muskets.

"Release him."

James blinked, sure he had misheard.

_"__Release him!"_ Beckett repeated, this time with a short tone and a sharp look when his marines hadn't obeyed him.

James found he was suddenly free, relinquished by the men who had once served under him. He straightened his waistcoat, quite pointless in the continuing downpour, and he slowly moved away from them and across the deck to where Ona and Groves stood.

"Now. I expect my lieutenant back in one piece, Miss Sharp," Beckett spoke in a low tone that James knew was a warning. Ona still had Groves in a tight grip, and the poor man looked at James as if he could help his predicament somehow. Perhaps he could.

"Ona," he spoke quietly enough so only they could hear, "you must let him go."

Her cold eyes never left Beckett's, and James noted Beckett never looked away from her. He had never seen the man stare at anyone that way before, as if she was a legitimate threat. A rival to be conquered. Beckett never appraised another person as if they were his equal, but with her, he acted as if he had met his match.

James felt an odd, uncomfortable sensation at the idea, one he couldn't quite pinpoint.

"How did you plan on getting us off this ship?" she asked instead, still not looking at him. "How did you get here, for that matter?"

"It's too difficult to explain right now. Will you trust me?"

She finally looked up at him. A glacial, infinite gaze that seemed to look straight through him. James gave another involuntary shudder, one not caused from the seawater that dripped down the back of his neck.

But then, at the pace of an iceberg melting, the ice gradually thawed from her eyes.

"I will trust you," she said, softly and without the razor-sharp edge of her earlier tone.

Her acknowledgement, especially after everything that had happened, hit him with a harder force than he had expected. His heart swelled and his expression threatened to break into something brittle and fragile, but he refused to let it. Now was not the time to fall to pieces because someone had showed him a modicum of trust, no matter how much it meant to him.

"Then let him go."

She did. The dirk was pulled away from his throat and she moved back from him, giving Groves his freedom. The look that James' former officer gave him was so full of overwhelming gratitude that he felt a flush of guilt. He'd never wanted Groves to be put in danger. He was an exemplary officer and a good man, and he deserved better than to be used as a hostage in a game none of them quite understood.

Or at least, a game James didn't quite understand. Ona and Beckett seemed to not have that problem, though perhaps that was because they were the only ones truly playing.

Groves made it back to the line of marines, and Beckett's eyes never left Ona. She, in turn, kept her eyes firmly on him, even when James gently took her arm and guided her toward the gunwale. The storm still raged around them, but neither of them seemed to notice, so preoccupied they were in staring down the other.

Though the marines stood perfectly still with the practice of drilled discipline, James could see the bafflement in their eyes as they looked between Ona and Beckett, their commander remaining silent when he should have been giving orders to have them both shot.

James didn't know what Beckett was thinking, and he was not going to wait around to discover what he was plotting now.

They had backed up to the edge of the deck, and James pulled Ona onto the railing, holding onto the ratlines for balance. That's when he saw the look on her face. A dark, cold, muted smile that was aimed directly at Beckett. The lord governor did not smile in return.

Suddenly terrified of what would happen if they remained for even a second longer, James grabbed Ona around the middle and hurled them both backward into the raging water.


	28. The Terrible Heart

James gripped Ona tightly and concentrated as hard as possible as the churning, grey seawater raced to meet them.

In an instant, their surroundings shifted. And instead of plunging into the ocean, they collided with the wooden deck of a ship.

James took most of the blow, landing hard on his back as Ona fell on his chest, knocking the wind out of him. She rolled off of him in one fluid motion, already on her knees and frantically taking in their surroundings with the dirk in hand. She held it defensively as if waiting for an impending attack. James was still trying to catch his breath.

He turned his head, noted the tarnished, dark wood of deck, and cursed.

"The_ Flying Dutchman_," Ona observed grimly. They seemed to be in the fo'c'sle, if the swinging, mossy hammocks were anything to go by, which was a bit of luck since it stood empty in the midst of battle.

"I was actually… aiming for the _Empress_," James spoke, wincing as he tried to pull himself into a sitting position. "I suppose I need more practice," he added with a wry half-smile. The effort of using such a bizarre method of travel, coupled with his graceless landing, left him aching and breathless.

Ona pocketed the dirk and moved to kneel at his side, helping him sit up the rest of the way and lean against the hull. Her observant eyes caught what he had yet to realize.

"You've overexerted yourself."

James watched as she shrugged off his thick coat and held it out to him. He was about to protest when she added, "It's too large and cumbersome for me to wear in a fight."

He eyed his suspiciously, not liking the sound of that, but he took the coat without protest.

"It belongs to you, anyway," she added quietly, not quite able to meet his eye. "I shouldn't have had it to begin with."

"Well," he responded with a quick raise of his brows, "I appreciate that you kept it safe. I had not expected to see it again, to be honest."

_I hadn't expected to see you again, either,_ he thought, taking the moment to really look at her. Ona's hair, normally the color of straw but now a deep gold shade, was still drenched from the rain, and her eyes looked tired and worn. Other than that, she appeared in better health than he could have hoped.

Yes, he was far more gladdened about that than the return of his coat, but he didn't say it aloud, knowing it would be far too familiar. They may have been imprisoned together, tortured together, and narrowly escaped impending doom together, but that didn't mean decorum was thrown out with the bathwater. Boundaries existed for a reason.

James slipped his arms through the sleeves and pulled it up over his shoulders, giving an involuntary sigh of relief. The inside of his coat was still warm, and while he tried not to blush at the knowledge of why that was so, he couldn't deny it surrounded him with an odd comfort that made him want to forget about this whole affair. No more Beckett, no more Jones, and no more bloody pirates. He was exhausted and wanted to sleep for about three days straight.

"I could try one more time," he said, closing his eyes and resting the back of his head against the hull. "Perhaps I can get us out of this mad storm and somewhere marginally safer. Preferably away from the battlefield."

"What you need to do is rest," she admonished him flatly. He almost smiled, but the gesture died before it was born. There was a question he was avoiding. A large, unspoken thing that hovered like a ghost between them, and there was only one way to rid themselves of this phantom.

"Ona…" he said, trying not to let his trepidation leech into his words. "That story you told. It wasn't… true. You only told it to Beckett so it would frighten the men."

There was no response. James opened his eyes to find her pointedly not looking at him.

"Ona?" he asked breathily. He was suddenly afraid.

The sound of war raged outside, but the world didn't exist as far as he was concerned. The fear that gripped him was so demanding and pressing that he couldn't bear her silence a moment longer.

"Ona, please tell me. I wish to know."

"Do you?" she asked, her jaw muscles tightening as her eyes remained steadfastly away from him.

"Y—" He cleared his throat of its abrupt dryness. "Yes."

"It's true," she said in voice so soft it was almost a whisper. She looked so small in that moment. Almost fragile. He had never seen her that way before, and that frightened him more than anything. "I killed them all. Every man onboard the _Intrepid._ And I only spared the boy because Franklin asked me to."

James didn't move. He barely even breathed.

Ona curled her hands against her side and she seemed to struggle to remain composed, her eyes blinking rapidly. "Is that what you wanted to hear, James Norrington? Are you satisfied with this line of inquiry?"

No, he wasn't satisfied. Far from it. He felt unsteady in a way that had nothing to do with the ship's constant motion, and a gaping pit had opened within his stomach.

_"__Why?"_ he finally choked out in a strangled tone. "Why would you…" James trailed off, unable to finish the sentence and speak the words—the ones that would demand to know how she could be responsible for so much death and destruction.

"What does it matter now?" she asked, her voice equally unsteady. "They're dead. And the dead do not care that they are so."

That wasn't strictly true—he was proof of that—but James said nothing. There was nothing to be said. All he felt was sort of strange hollowness in his chest, with no memory of when it had appeared there.

"I'm going to find some weapons so we can at least defend ourselves," she informed him, or rather the floor, as that was where she was currently staring. "Don't move."

Ona rose to her feet and disappeared out the door before James could say a word. What that word could have been, he did not know. His brain seemed to have churned to a stop, unable to comprehend, well… any of it. A part of him still denied it wholeheartedly, but another began to tally up the ways Ona was unlike anyone he had ever known.

For one, she was not human. She was something that belonged to this world's vast seas. How could he even begin to understand the mind of a creature from that unknown realm? Could she be judged by the same standards that all subjects of the Crown must abide by? What if her kind saw humans as little more than animals, to be used and discarded as they saw fit? Could Ona really have killed everyone aboard the _Endeavor _and not feel an ounce of remorse?

And there was one other mystery that James found plaguing his thoughts. _Franklin Sharp._ The captain had clearly been fond of Ona, to the point where he had protected and defended her at risk to himself. And yet, he had been witness to the _Intrepid_ massacre. How could a man, who seemed rational and of sound character, be loyal to a being that had murdered most of his shipmates?

Ona's own words, spoken mere moments ago, answered his question.

_What did the cowards do after that? They tried to _burn _me and _hang_ Franklin._

_Of course,_ he thought, rubbing the bridge of his nose in a gesture of self-disgust. _She did it for him. Because she is capable of caring for someone. She is capable of remorse and grief as clearly shown by Sharp's murder. And I questioned her humanity moments after she had saved my own life. That's just brilliant, James. Truly exceptional._

He closed his eyes, weary of the world, but mostly weary of himself. He did not open them again until he sensed a presence hovering above him. At the sight of Ona standing next to him, two cutlasses in hand, he flinched like a stupid, thoughtless beast.

She said nothing, her storm-blue eyes blank. She flipped one sword around and held it out to him by the blade. James took it with a quick, apologetic glance, one she did not acknowledge.

And when he struggled to his feet, having to brace himself against the barnacled hull, she did not offer her help and instead keeping some distance between them. James felt even more the villain. She had only threatened Groves' life to force Beckett's hand.

She wouldn't have truly followed through with her bluff of slaughtering the entire crew…

…but a part of him wondered…

"You should remain here."

He blinked, forcing himself out of the dark depths of his thoughts. Ona was eyeing him warily, and James hoped she didn't notice how unsteady he was against the violent pitch and roll of the storm-ridden ship.

"No," he responded with a shake of his head. A mistake it turned out, as it made the world spin and he had to lean against the bulkhead again. Transporting himself twice in a row when he had never done it before had left him much weaker than he had anticipated. Not to mention neither time he had made it to his intended destination.

During his first attempt, James had reappeared submerged and choking on saltwater. He had made it to the surface and found himself not far behind the stern of the _Endeavo_r. It hadn't taken much effort to swim to the ship, which in and of itself had been strange. James had always been a strong swimmer, but even he should have struggled with the weight of his soaked uniform. He had then scaled the side of the hull and crawled through one of the open gunports, and had found Ona soon after.

For his second attempt, he had envisioned the _Empress_ in his mind and willed himself and Ona to appear on its deck. He figured since the ship was not currently in combat, and he had been onboard before, it would be a safe enough bet. But somehow he had ended up on the _Dutchman_ once more, and he wondered if the ship itself was responsible, purposefully keeping him close.

He shuddered at the grim thought.

"No," he repeated when he saw Ona staring at him, still waiting for a further clarifying statement. "Our best chance of survival is to leave the_ Dutchman_ and board the _Black Pearl_."

"Then that is what _you_ must do," she answered, her brows furrowed in what he could only describe as a stubborn angle. "But I am remaining aboard _this _ship."

James stared at her in open disbelief.

"What the devil for?" he asked, spreading his hands to indicate the ship at large, making it very clear he thought the idea was ludicrous. "What reason could you possibly have for wanting to stay?"

"To kill Jones."

The statement was given so matter-of-factly that all James could do was gape at her.

"For God's sake, you can't—you can't _kill _Jones."

"I don't remember asking for your opinion on the matter," she said with an impressive amount of sarcasm. But James didn't back off, even as her blue eyes hardened into ship-breaking ice.

"There is something you must understand," he interjected, suddenly realizing she might not know the full implications of her statement. "Jones cannot _be_ killed like a mortal man. You must—"

"Destroy his heart. Yes, I know," she snapped, impatiently wiping wet strands of hair out of her face as she glared up at him.

"Then you must also know the person who stabs his heart must take his place as captain of the _Flying_ _Dutchman_?" he added with sudden quietness. He hadn't really thought of it before, but to imagine it now was a horror. Ona, wild and untamable, forced to captain a ship of the damned for all eternity. The idea made him feel an unexpected surge of fierce protectiveness, a need to shield her from that fate no matter the cost.

She opened her mouth to answer, but no words left her lips. Her gaze shifted from his, realization dawning across her face. She hadn't known.

"I suppose Beckett failed to mention that aspect of the curse," James said dourly, not at all shocked by the lord's duplicity.

Ona was still looking away from him, her lips set into a thin line, but when she met his eye there was an unmistakable resolve there.

"Then those are the consequences I must accept."

James wanted to reach out and grip her by the shoulders to impress upon her the seriousness of the situation. Or maybe just to be sure she didn't walk out the door. They had just escaped from one tyrant; James would be damned before he let another sink his claws into her.

"You are not the only person here who can lay claim to this burden." When she didn't seem to understand his meaning, he added, "What if I wish to take Jones' place?"

Now it was her turn to grimace in disbelief.

_"__You?"_

"It's not what I would have desired, but the options left to us are terrible ones," James responded with an unhappy frown. "My fate was sealed the moment I died on this ship. I can't leave, Ona."

He wasn't sure if he was imagining it or not, but he thought he saw her lips slightly tremble.

"But that may not be true," she said, taking a step closer to him. James almost stepped back out of the habit of propriety, but he had nowhere to go. So he remained where he was, remaining carefully still. "If Jones should die, the magic which binds you to the ship may die with him."

"Did Lord Beckett tell you that?"

The words had left his mouth before he could stop them, too late recalling where he had heard them before. It had been Elizabeth's response when James had said her father had returned to England. His tone, lightly coated in loathing, mirrored Elizabeth's almost exactly.

Ona's face visibly paled, and he wanted to reach out and touch her arm. Do something, anything, to make that hollowness leave her eyes. A haunted look he himself had caused to appear.

"Jones placed the curse upon the heart himself," he said with more gentleness this time. "_The ship must always have a captain_ is what he once told me. In this instance, I have no reason to believe he was lying. I'm bound to the _Dutchman_ whether Jones lives or dies, but… if I'm the one who captains the ship, then this madness can end and Beckett will no longer control the deadliest force on the sea."

James didn't tell her how he had counted on Sparrow to depose Jones as the new captain. Seeing as they were still engaged in battle with the _Pearl,_ he suspected the pirate had failed and Jones had succeeded in sending him back to the Locker.

The thought of Jack Sparrow dead was not as satisfying as James had thought it would be.

"I can never leave this ship, but you can," James said, earnest and imploring as he looked down at her. She was so close that he could see the lighter shade of blue in her dark eyes, like a ring of ice around her pupils. "Allow me this… this one good deed." He hard-swallowed, recalling to mind a conversation he'd had over a year ago with none other than Sparrow.

Becoming the new captain of the _Dutchman_ wasn't enough to redeem a man of a lifetime of wickedness, but… it was a start.

Ona said nothing, but she did stare up into his face for a good, long moment. James couldn't interpret the meaning in her gaze and he wondered if he ever really could. Just when he believed he was beginning to understand her, she would do something unexpected and throw him off his balance. Like a man lost at sea, tumbling on the ocean waves.

And this time was no exception.

Without warning, Ona raised a hand, placed it on his chest, and pushed. It wasn't hard, but his back hit the hull of the ship as his unsteady legs offered no resistance against her. James looked down at her in muted surprise, but she kept her palm in place as she pinned him with ease.

"You are not strong enough to face Jones with any chance of victory, Norrington," Ona observed in a rather flat tone that contrasted with the intensity in her eyes.

"I can—" he began to say as he tried to push off from the hull. This time, she _shoved _him against it. Her intense expression knocked the air out of him just as much as the hard wood at his back did.

"No, you can't. But I can." Her tone was fierce but not cruel. She was simply stating the truth, or the truth as she saw it. A truth James strongly disagreed with.

But he didn't immediately answer her. Half of his waistcoat was open, the buttons lost hours ago, and the only cloth that separated her palm from his skin was a thin linen tunic. He could feel the heat of her hand, even through his scaled flesh, so warm it was almost burning. That comforting feeling tried to ensnare him again, attempted to fill his limbs with pleasurable heaviness, and once again he wanted to drowse.

James was abruptly reminded of the strange lizards he had seen on one of the islands. They would sit on large boulders near the water, their faces lazily turned up toward the sun, their eyes shut in what looked tantamount to pure bliss.

He needed to snap himself out of it.

"I do not doubt your capabilities," he intoned, hoping she wouldn't notice the breathless quality of his voice. "It's not a question of whether or not you _can_ do this. I'm simply asking if you _should_."

Her eyes narrowed, almost suspiciously, but James simply returned her hard gaze with all the sincerity he could muster. Cannon fire vibrated throughout the deck, the cries of dying men and the clank of striking metal filled the air, but neither of them acknowledged it. Not until they could solve this impasse. Though James suspected if she truly wanted to, she could knock him unconscious and continue her quest for revenge unhampered by his objections.

Instead, Ona dropped her eyes toward the vicinity of his collarbone and, in a voice so vulnerable it made his heart hurt, said, "If I don't kill Jones, Franklin's soul will never know peace."

"And if you are killed instead?" he replied, his soft tone matching hers. "Will his soul know peace, then?"

Those stormy eyes, so wrathful at times and captivating at others, rose to meet his again. James was acutely aware that her hand was still on the flat of his sternum, intensely warm and wonderful (_wonderful?),_ and their proximities were closer than decorum demanded. And yet he couldn't find himself to care, so caught by the notion of what would happen if she faced Jones and perished in the attempt. It bothered him to a degree that made his chest constrict with—

A familiar whistle rent the air. James moved on pure instinct, throwing himself forward and tackling Ona to the deck. The hull exploded where they had been a second ago, filling the air with metal shrapnel and wood splinters and acrid smoke. James covered her head, shielding her with his arms as the deluge of debris rained down on them.

James cautiously looked up and spied the large, splintered hole in the hull. He doubted even he, with his increasingly impervious body, could have survived such a blow. If it hadn't been for his experience recognizing and acting on the sound of incoming cannon fire, their debate on who would kill Jones would have ended right then and there.

_"__Norrington."_

He blinked and quickly turned toward her, alarmed by the choked manner in which Ona had uttered his name. But she wasn't looking up at him; she was staring in the area of his torso. He looked down and blanched as he saw a large piece of wood embedded deep within his side.

"Oh," he observed rather stupidly. The sight of it was borderline grotesque, but he was equally disturbed when he realized it… barely hurt. In fact, there was very little pain to speak of, only an annoying, nagging sensation that something was pressing into him.

Without truly thinking about what he was doing, James grabbed the piece of debris, and with a hard pull, yanked it from his flesh.

Ona gave a strangled sound of alarm.

"You'll bleed to death!"

"I don't think I will," he responded with that same stupidly bland tone. But he knew he was right. Where there should have been a fountain of scarlet blood, there was no gush or spray from his wound. Only a sort of oozing mess, and when James pressed his fingers to it, he pulled away to see it was much darker than blood had any right to be. In fact, it was so dark that it appeared to be black.

Unable to think of what to say, James met Ona's gaze and just stared at her blankly. Her own expression changed in a rapid succession—first the shadow of worry, then hardened determination, and before he could stop her, she leapt to her feet and bolted out the door.

"Ona!" he called after her, but it was useless. She was gone, vanished into storm and battle. _"Godsdamn it all,"_ he muttered under his breath, grimacing as he jabbed the point of the cutlass against the floor and braced against it to push himself to his feet. He stumbled unsteadily to the doorway and pushed open the tarnished door, pausing at the chaos playing out right before his eyes.

Cannon fire split hull and rigging. Cutlasses flashed through the downpour that fell from turbulent clouds the color of slate. Pirates fought against both Company marines and cursed sailors, killing and dying in ribbons of blood mixed with rain and sea.

James gaped at the impressionistic painting of what he imagined Hell must look like, all against the backdrop of the two ships circling each other around a raging maelstrom. It was little wonder he couldn't spot Ona's yellow hair amongst the participants of the violent pandemonium. It would do no good to shout her name either, as his voice would be lost to the howling wind and boom of cannons.

A crewman passed directly ahead of him, stopped, and then turned and stared at him. James recognized the sailor with a conch shell for a head; he had threatened James' life on Las Cruces.

A cruel smile spread across the man's misshapen face.

"Come to join us, Admiral?" he asked with a slight mocking tilt to his head. He raised his sword into a ready position. "Or do you still have the notion to be a brave fool?"

"You know me too well," James responded with a half-grin. Then he lunged forward with cutlass in hand, wiping the smirk off the sailor's face as he forced him on the defensive.

James was relentless; his body might have been injured and misused, but his pent-up anger and frustration and fear was the fuel for the fire that scorched through him. James slashed, cut, jabbed, parried, and blocked, all faster and with more force than he had ever been capable of before. The fight became smoother and more effortless as it went on, and soon the shelled man no longer seemed to enjoy himself, a worried grimace crossing his frightful features.

The cursed sailor got the upper hand when the deck tilted a few degrees more to the portside and James' footing slipped on the slick deck. He went down hard on one knee, too slow to bring up his sword in time to block the killing blow.

He flinched and waited for metal to split his skull, but the blow never came. Instead, the silvery sound of steel on steel rang through the air, and he looked up and saw the sailor's blade crossed with a second cutlass, blocking his downward cut in its tracks.

The shelled man scowled at Ona, and she gave back an equally hostile expression.

"Spared by the devil_fish_," he hissed in intense loathing.

With movements so liquid they were equal parts intimidating and beautiful, Ona kicked him in the side of the knee, parried his blade as he fell to the deck, and slashed her sword through his neck in one clean sweep.

The shell of his head fell to the deck, sprouted hermit crab legs, and scuttled away in a panicked, zig-zagging path.

"Call me a devilfish again," she scowled at the sailor's body, which was now crawling on its hands and knees after its wayward head.

James was still on one knee, looking up at her in what he knew was abject awe. She extended her hand down to him. There was something in her eyes, a sort of living brightness that made him suspect she enjoyed the thrill of a good fight. He couldn't decide whether to feel alarmed, protective, or flustered at that revelation.

He reached out his hand to take hers. And hesitated. Dark emerald scales now covered the back of his hands, almost completely encompassing his knuckles and fingers. His stomach twisted and he felt he might be sick.

But Ona didn't retract her hand. Her eyes were steady on his face despite the fact she must have seen what he saw, and he felt a brief but overwhelming sensation of gratitude. James took her hand and she pulled him to his feet, her grip warm and strong, and though he was reluctant to, he released it as soon as he could. James knew it was an irrational fear, but he was still afraid his affliction would somehow spread to her if their touches lingered for too long.

"Thank you," he said, unable to help the small smile that touched his lips. An actual, genuine smile, not one that was filled with sharp edges or venomous barbs.

It might have been his imagination, but he thought he saw the ghost of a smile in return. Or maybe just the fleeting wish of a smile. It didn't matter, for it made his heart give a strange leap all the same.

"Make no mistake, I still intend to kill Jones," she clarified almost haughtily, but then that ghost-smile was back as she added, "but I couldn't very well allow you to lose your head, either."

"I appreciate that, given I'm rather fond of it remaining where it is," he responded with a smile that was, most assuredly, sharp with wry humor. But it didn't hurt him to make it, not like it usually did.

It took cannon fire exploding the gunwale a few feet away from them to remind James that they were still in the middle of a heated battle.

"Right," he announced, taking Ona's shoulder and gently guiding her to where he could see the other ship off their portside. "I don't trust my ability to… transport us both over to the _Pearl,_ so you're going to have to take a line and swing over—"

"Norrington," she interrupted him in a warning tone as she shrugged off his hand. "Did you not hear a word I said? I am not _going_ anywhere. You should be the one to—"

James was no longer listening. His eyes had drifted over to the ship in question and had frozen on two figures in the middle of the deck. They had been fighting back-to-back a moment ago, but now they were joined in a lover's embrace, completely oblivious to the world around them as they kissed with an intensity that was rivaled only by the storm.

He could feel the tip of his blade slowly dip toward the deck as his body went numb, his mind soon following.

A powerful _thump_ vibrated within his chest. A heartbeat, but not his. The world went silent. All he could hear was the slow, enthralling, rhythmic sound that seemed to consume everything that he was and had ever been.

_Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump._

"Norrington?"

_Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump._

A part of him registered noise that was meant to be someone speaking his name. Now calling it, repeatedly. Concerned.

Unimportant.

Irrelevant.

But dangerous. And in need of eradication.

James turned, lifted his sword, and drove it directly toward her heart.


	29. A Battle of Wills

Something was wrong.

The rain lashed angrily, and the wind viciously grabbed at her clothing and hair, but despite the overwhelming sights and sounds Ona knew something was deeply amiss with James Norrington. His eyes had gone vacant, his expression slack, and he responded not to her voice or the fingers she gingerly laid on his arm.

And then he moved, spun around to face her, and in the same moment plunged his cutlass toward her chest.

The only reason he didn't hit his intended target was because she had instinctively stepped back at the fast movement. The blade sliced across the cusp of her shoulder instead, causing her to scream in shocked pain.

Norrington lunged again, slashing across her torso, moving with the fluid grace of a deadly predator, but a quivering energy filled her limbs and she matched him in speed, bringing her sword to bear against him.

There was no time to think or worry or_ fear_ for what had happened to Norrington. All she could do was avoid the killing edge of his sword. She barely dodged out of the blade's path and her back slammed against the mainmast. The piece of metal buried itself into the wood when Ona ducked, giving her a moment's reprieve to back away as he was forced to dislodge it. Norrington braced a boot against the mainmast as he began to yank it free.

She glanced at her shoulder and saw the blood spilling down her left arm, but there was nothing to do about it now. Ona brought up her sword just as Norrington freed his, and he drove his blade down toward her head. She parried it aside, but he returned with another blow, another jab, and then another. He was like a storm himself, relentless and merciless and insensate to her harsh, pain-filled gasps.

Ona was a skilled fighter. Franklin had taught her well, and she'd had over three decades of practice with him. She even landed a few of her own non-fatal blows, but Norrington seemed not to notice the cuts, nor did he slow his tireless advance.

So focused was she on defending herself from receiving another wound that she didn't know he had cornered her toward the quarterdeck until her back hit a solid wall.

Unable to maneuver out of his way, Ona was helpless as Norrington grabbed her right wrist in his hard grip and slammed it against the bulkhead. When she refused to relinquish the grip on her weapon, he did it again, and again, until she heard something _snap_, and the cutlass dropped from her lifeless grasp.

White-hot agony raced from her wrist up her arm as she gave a muffled cry, her jaw clenched as she bared her teeth. But she went completely still as Norrington pressed the edge of his sword against the column of her exposed throat.

Ona glared at him, her ragged breathes sounding like soft hisses through her teeth, and he returned her look with one of shocking loathing and hatred. She had no doubt he was seconds away from killing her without a shred of remorse.

But… he didn't. Despite the hostility in his eyes, they were still oddly… vacant. And it was not the only unusual aspect of his appearance. The scales had progressed to completely cover his throat and most of his jaw, now outlining his face all the way up to his forehead where it stopped at his hairline. His ears had completely vanished, replaced by miniature pectoral fins. They were so delicate and thin that she could see through the webbing between the fin rays.

His hands were webbed talons, digging into the soft flesh of her throbbing wrist. His sea-green eyes were now almost entirely black, bordered by a thin ring of venomous emerald.

Norrington's transformation into a true thrall of the _Flying Dutchman_ was nearly complete.

Nearly. But not entirely.

_"__Norrington."_ She gasped out his name, trying to ignore the cut of the metal against her throat every time she spoke. "Norrington. You must… stop this."

His empty, feral expression remained the same. Indifferent and deadly. But despite that, he did not cut her throat. He could have, quite easily, with her completely at his mercy. He remained stock still, like a rain-drenched statue in a dreary promenade.

But then there was a flicker of something in his eyes, just a fleeting glance, but for a moment he appeared… uncertain.

"Norrington? Can you hear me?"

There was no response or acknowledgement.

"James?"

He blinked, the look of hesitation appearing again, and he seemed to focus his eyes on hers. She had not lost him to Jones just yet.

"James. I know you can still hear me," Ona said, desperate and hopeful all at once. "Do not lose yourself. Do not let Jones take control. This is not you, James. You're not like him. You're stronger. _Fight him_."

The blade tightened against her throat, but Ona never took her eyes from his. The sheets of wind and rain slammed against them, and sailors and marines clashed only a few paces away, but she never blinked or looked away, fearing if she did then this slim connection would be broken and she would be dead.

There was a shift, a nearly imperceptible change in Norrington's expression. It was a look of concentration and anguish, and his voice was faint with exhaustion as he said:

"I… cannot… stop…"

* * *

James had her pinned to the wall like an exotic butterfly to a pin board, fragile and breakable. But she didn't fight him any longer. There were words spoken, meaningless things that no longer mattered to him.

_"__Finish it,"_ a low voice intoned next to his ear, compelling and pleased. "Kill the devilfish and end another of Calypso's many brood. I doubt she will even notice the loss. Abandoning those she claims to love is what she does best."

He tightened the blade against her throat… but didn't follow through. Something, a thing he did not understand, stayed his hand. He tried again, uncertainty flicking across his mind.

"James?"

It was the first word that reached through to him, a word of recognition and one that meant something.

"James. I know you can still hear me."

He could. The words, the voice, it was pulling at something in him. Calling to him. James. It was a name. _His_ name. And she… was someone to him, wasn't she? Her blue eyes were a dark, stormy grey now, and they captured him within their churning depths like the maelstrom off their bow.

"Do not lose yourself," she told him with firm purpose. He could do naught but listen to that voice, let it wash over him like the rainwater off his coat. "Do not let Jones take control. This is not you, James. You're not like him. You're stronger. _Fight him_."

_"__Obey me!"_ Jones' dreaded voice snarled in his ear, causing James to push the blade harder against her throat despite his wishes. He didn't want to do this. He didn't want—

"I care not for what ye wish, Master Norrington," Jones mocked. James could not see the monstrous captain, but his words were as cold and clear as frost. "Slay Calypso's whelp!"

His muscles trembled as his mind fought to resist, to disobey the cruel compulsion. But even as a part of his consciousness balked at the influence, another part, cold and dead, began to chant.

_Part of the crew, part of the ship. Part of the crew, part of the ship._

It was the sharp fear evoked from that mantra that gave him the strength needed to break through and warn her. James tried to tell her with his eyes the danger she was in, and that she had to flee and abandon him to his fate.

"I… cannot… stop…"

He realized his mistake too late. Ona wasn't going to leave him. That was fully evident in the desperate determination in her eyes.

"Then let me help you," she responded in an urgent plea. He couldn't speak, his remaining control quickly fading as the compulsion began to pull him back under the black waters of insensate obedience.

Then Ona did something strange. She raised her free left hand to his face, cupping his rough, scale-hewn cheek with her palm. The touch was so startlingly tender and gentle, the way he had dreamed Elizabeth might have touched him but never would. It was such an odd thought to have at that moment, and he wondered if it was the result of his dying brain, floundering in its final moments of freedom and life.

James never looked away from her steady gaze, too enraptured, not understanding the point of her actions until they were made frighteningly clear.

Still cupping his cheek, Ona raised her thumb and pressed it directly between his brows, where a sunburst of light shattered him into a million, sparkling pieces.


	30. Healer's Hands

The cry of excruciation Norrington gave as dropped to his knees was almost enough to make her break off.

But she didn't. Instead, she pressed her thumb _tighter_ against his skull. The moment he released her right wrist, which was undoubtedly broken, she gripped the other side of his face and concentrated all of her focus onto one thought. One desire. One reality she willed into existence.

Smooth emerald scales fell from Norrington's face and throat like heavy autumnal leaves. Further and further they flaked away, down what she could see of his chest. His talons shrank into rough but very-human hands, and though she could not see under his coat sleeves, she sensed his arms were completely clear of the scales.

At that, Ona was forced to stop, jerking her hands away from him with great effort. Weakness struck her like a bludgeon over the head, and she sank downward, her limbs trembling from exertion as she braced her good hand against the deck, her other held protectively to her chest.

Exhaustion followed, rolling over her like a wave, and she closed her eyes to focus on simply taking each next breath. She had been drained after using the same cleansing method on Jones' bosun, peeling back some of his affliction temporarily, but it was nothing compared to the toll it was taking from her now.

She suspected she knew why. Despite the bosun being under the curse longer, the _Dutchman_ was loath to part with Norrington even the slightest.

"Ona?"

She forced her eyes open and raised her head wearily. Norrington was staring between his hands, free from all signs of the affliction.

"What did you do? How did you…" He trailed off as he caught sight of her expression, and he lowered his hands to stare at her, his brows drawn in concern.

"Ona?" He hard-swallowed. "How… how badly did I hurt you?"

"I've done what I can, but it won't hold for long. We must hurry," she responded by way of answering, looking away from his troubled expression as she began a visual search for something. Her eyes fell to the tattered hem of her dress.

"That is not what I asked," Norrington admonished. She ignored him and tore a long strip from the bottom of the shift under her dress. Satisfied with its length, she began to wrap it around her wrist, which had begun to swell and turn a dark pink color.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice faint with confusion. Ona continued to weave the cloth around her wrist and palm until it was held immobile, and she tied off the end as best she could using her teeth and left hand. When the makeshift splint held to her satisfaction, she struggled to her feet and picked up her discarded cutlass, somehow still nearby despite the increasing tilt of the deck.

Norrington also rose and made as if to stop her by setting a hand on her arm, but he paused and then dropped his hand away entirely when Ona had slightly backed away from him. She hadn't meant to do it, it was simply an instinctive response after having just been attacked. But Norrington's expression was past regret, almost morose with guilt.

"I… I am so sorry. I didn't… want to." Norrington hard-swallowed, and when his gaze wandered to her bandaged wrist, he visibly winced. "It was like before… but worse. Much worse."

Ona shook her head, not needing, wanting, or having time for Norrington's self-flagellation. "The blame is not yours. You will lose yourself to the _Dutchman_ entirely, and very soon, unless I find Jones' foul heart and run it through."

"Oh, for _Christ's sake_," he sputtered, exasperation temporarily ridding him of guilt and hardening his features. "In all likelihood, Jones has both the key and chest now. You can't possibly face him, not with those injuries!"

"I'm just as proficient with my left hand as I am with my right," she said dismissively, hefting the blade into her good hand and testing the strength of her fingers. She was still weakened, but she wasn't about to tell Norrington that. She looked up at him more sharply than she intended and asked, "Now, are you going to help me or not?"

"Help… you?" he asked, expression obtuse. "I… How?"

Ona gazed around at the sailors and marines and pirates fighting for control of the _Dutchman_. It was little wonder she and Norrington had been ignored—between the hurricane-like storm and the maelstrom and the cannon fire, the scene was filled with utter pandemonium.

"If the key and the chest are with Jones, then where is _he_?" she asked, turning toward him as she struggled to wipe wet strands of hair out of her face with her injured hand.

Norrington blinked and his gaze wandered, as if recalling something, and then his eyes widened and he looked skyward. Curious, Ona followed his gaze, but she could only see the billowing moss-covered sails straining at their ropes against the onslaught of wind.

"Sparrow had the chest, and last I saw him, he was up in the mainmast."

Ona furrowed her brows. "What's a Sparrow?"

Norrington gave a brief, amused smile before turning his attention back to the rigging and sails.

"Not a what, but a whom. An entirely bothersome whom. And… I do believe I've spotted him."

He pointed upwards, and sure enough, there were two figures battling above the topgallant sail. How they were able to keep their footing in the relentless downpour and the severe tilt of the ship, Ona had no idea.

She had just spotted one of the figures holding a very chest-like item by one hand when the deck rolled acutely beneath their feet. Cries were voiced from the men as everyone was forced to stop fighting and grab the nearest solid objects they could find. For Ona, that object was Norrington's outstretched arm, and she grabbed hold of it as her boots slipped across the slick floor.

He gripped her forearm above her broken wrist, and she swallowed down the pain and stabbed her sword into the deck, using it to hold her in place and keep from sliding off the ship. She looked up to see Norrington had grabbed ahold of one of the spokes of the capstan. His expression was wholly tensed as he struggled to keep hold of the rotted wood and her arm at the same time.

Others were not so lucky. Cursed and mortal men alike tumbled into the gaping maw of the maelstrom, and Ona could see two figures hanging from the sails in a similar fashion, the chest caught between them.

A jeering laugh caught her attention and she brought her eyes downward to see the shelled sailor she had fought earlier, his head now reattached to his body. He held his sword pointed directly at her throat.

"I've never tasted devilfish before," he mocked with a crooked grin. "Your flesh will make a hearty meal over our fires tonight—"

Ona didn't have time to even raise her blade when something fell from the sky, hit the sailor's shelled head with such force that it retracted into his body, and he tumbled over the gunwale into the tumultuous whirlpool.

The deck settled back to a degree that, while discomforting, was less extreme and now possible to stand on. Norrington released her, and she gave him an appreciative look for the rescue, and then she hesitantly looked over the railing to be sure the cursed sailor was gone.

"I did warn you," she muttered.

Norrington, meanwhile, had bent down and picked up the dark object that had struck the sailor. She saw it was a rather intricately designed, heavy iron chest. It could only be the one that contained Davy Jones' still-beating heart.

When he looked up at her, trouble heavy on his brows, she demanded, "The key? Where is it?"

Before Norrington could answer, another figure appeared next to them, swinging onto the ship with a moss-encrusted rope. Ona squinted at him and recognized him as the young man who had dined with Beckett aboard the _Endeavor._

The young man briefly glanced at her, and then he froze and looked back. His gaze then went to Norrington, and back to her, so quickly and with such wide eyes that it was nearly comical.

What was not comical was when he drew his sword and pointed it directly at Norrington.

"Hand over the chest," he commanded, his authoritative tone undermined by his constant need to blink rainwater out of his eyes.

"I think not, Mister Turner," Norrington responded, giving him a brief, cutting smile, unimpressed with the cutlass pointed at his chest.

"Is _everyone_ after that damned thing!" Ona cried out irritably, and brought up her sword and pointed it at Turner for good measure. "If anyone has a rightful claim to the chest, it's me. _I_ am going to kill Jones, and the rest of you can bloody well _wait your turn!"_

Norrington and Turner both looked at her with wide eyes at her outburst. An outburst which was _completely_ justified in her mind. She was cold, wet, coated with grime and blood, and in various degrees of pain ranging from _aching _to _agony._

And on top of all of that, she hadn't eaten since breakfast.

Turner grimaced and said, "I need to kill Jones so I can free my father."

"Well," she answered tersely, "when I become the new captain, you can take your grievances to me."

His grimace turned into a scowl, and it might have been her imagination but she thought she saw Norrington's mouth tug into a faint smirk. She never found out, because their triple standoff was interrupted by a loud bark of laughter. The crewman who most resembled a hammerhead shark lopped into view, raising a large, rusty hatchet and pointed it at Norrington's head.

"I'll be needin' that back, Admiral," he said with a wide-toothed grin.

Ona turned her sword on the newest arrival, but Turner turned his sword on her. She gave him a glare of warning, and he must have thought better of his decision because he instead turned his sword on the shark crewman.

Now unspoken, temporary allies, Ona and Turner converged on the hammerhead. She still held her right arm close to her chest, but her left was held aloft and steady, and with Turner's right sword arm next to hers, they were almost back-to-back as they moved forward.

The grey shark's posture of confidence lost some of its swagger as both sets of eyes, one on his face and the other set on the ends of his elongated head, looked between them.

Ona wasn't sure which of them moved first, because after she and Turner struck at the cursed sailor, the fight ended fairly quickly. The hammerhead turned and fled, outmatched and overwhelmed, disappearing into the din of clashing swords and splintering wood.

Turner faced her with a smile of satisfaction, and she almost returned the gesture when they both seemed to remember their earlier confrontation. Their swords went up at once, eyeing each other like a pair of seagulls squaring off over a piece of fish.

But before they could commence with the fight they had earlier abandoned, Ona glanced to the side, expecting to see Norrington standing there with the chest.

The deck of the _Dutchman _was decidedly sans Norrington.

Turner followed her gaze and heaved a great sigh, the point of his sword lowering to the deck. He glanced back at her, and with a half-smile that seemed almost chastened, said, "No point in fighting now, is there?"

She was already planning the choice words she would use on Norrington when she found him, but the anger gave way to something else when she suddenly recalled what Turner had said earlier.

"What did you mean about freeing your father?" she asked Turner, raising her voice to be heard above the wind.

The young man turned to her, squinting against the storm or perhaps in confusion, and answered, "He's one of Jones' crew. If I can replace Jones as the captain, I can free him from servitude aboard the _Dutchman."_

So it was true. A new captain_ could_ potentially free the crew. Norrington wouldn't have to be trapped on the _Dutchman_ if she was captain. She could free him. Perhaps even Turner could free him if he was captain as well.

But if Norrington stabbed the heart first…

_"_Wait! Where are you going!" Turner yelled after her, but she ignored his frantic shouts as she fled down the ship toward the bow. She would be damned before she let that fool of a man sacrifice himself because of some virtuous sense of misguided guilt.

_Damn him,_ she seethed, beginning to trot out those choice words she had earlier contrived. _That completely unreasonable, harebrained, irrational, ass of a baboon—_


	31. Tremulous

_**Thank you everyone for your wonderful reviews. Also, I'm sorry.**_

* * *

James was in the middle of some well-deserved self-congratulations when two fists, one after the other, slammed him across the head, causing him to tumble backwards across the aftdeck. He lost his grip on the chest and it lay nearby, almost completely blending in with the grim hue of the rain-soaked, tarnished deck.

He looked up at his assailant and felt a stone plunge in his stomach. The cursed sailor, who had now acquired even more marine growths on his coat, still had the orange starfish on his face.

It was none other than the man who had taken James' life. Taken it, warped it, and turned it into a never-ending hellscape.

"Ah," James observed wryly, rising to his feet and pulling his stolen sword out of his baldric. "William Turner, Senior. How wonderful it is to see you again." His voice could not have been more acerbic.

Turner's father donned his own sword, staring at James with no recognition or humanity in his eyes. He gave an involuntary shudder, realizing for the first time what had happened to the man and how his actions had not been his own.

"Is it too much to ask that you lay down your arms, seeing as we're on the same crew and all?" he asked in a light, mocking tone of civility. Turner's father only stared at him. James supposed he should have been grateful the man didn't start up his dread mantra again.

The man did, however, lunge forward, swiping at James with unnatural speed. He parried and thrust in return, fighting off the sailor while trying to remain mindful of where the chest lay, keeping himself between it and his opponent. The older man collided with him, catching James off-guard and pushing him toward the railing until it cut against his lower back. He held up his sword to block the blow, but Turner's father leaned in and pinned him, their blades locked.

"I know… you're not in your right mind… old man," James seethed as he tried to unsuccessfully push him off, "but it's taking everything I have… _not _to kill you." He slipped out from under his blade and kicked the older man away, shouting, "All things considered!"

Turner's father lunged again, but his momentum was halted by a second blade that was thrust between them. James blinked when he saw it was none other than the son who had stopped the father, their blades locked as Turner shouted, "Don't hurt him! He's my father!"

"Are you addressing me, Mister Turner?" James mused in only half-mocking offense. "May I remind you that _he_ instigated this bout of violence? Not to mention betwixt the two of us, _he_ is the one who has done all the harming?"

"I am aware," the younger man responded with an unexpected amount of regret. He pushed his father away, circling around the cursed sailor with his blade raised. "And I'm sorry for that."

James backed away as the two continued to pace around each other. He calculated that Turner could hold his own against his bewitched father long enough for him to find the heart and end this permanently.

Turner must have caught on to James' plan when he didn't join him, because he turned his narrowed eyes onto him, sharp with suspicion.

James couldn't help himself. He gave an exaggerated bow, announced, "By your leave, Mister Turner," and turned away, smirking at Turner's shouted curse which was followed by the clash of metal. Turner Sr. was going to provide a nice distraction, indeed.

James looked to where the chest lay… and froze. The chest was gone. It had been just there, nestled against the railing, and now it had vanished.

His heart racing in panic, he made a quick search of the area, cursing the fact the chest was almost entirely camouflaged against the ship's deck and hull. But then James spotted it, back on the main deck near the mainmast. He made a dash for it, practically flying down the stairs as he went, and then was forced to an abrupt halt as someone stood just on the other side of the chest.

The grin on Davy Jones' monstrous face grew with cruel delight.

"Master Norrington," he affected a tone of mock-respect.

"Jones," he responded dully. James held his sword forward, his feet spread to distribute his weight efficiently, his eyes focused solely on the cursed captain who had caused so much destruction and suffering.

Jones raised his blade and touched it against James' sword, causing a clear, bell-like note to resonate through the air. James' brow creased at the melodic, familiar tone, and then his eyes widened as his vision alighted on the cutlass in Jones' malformed hand.

"That's _my sword!"_ he blurted, too shocked and appalled to school his expression into something more dignified.

"Aye," Jones confirmed, laughing deep in his throat.

"You… you stole it off of my corpse?" James asked, his voice pitched in stark disbelief.

"Do not sound so wronged, lad," Jones said with a shark's grin. "In yer final act as a living man, ye ran me through with this sword, which I would say counts as a parting gift." His grin widened at James' enraged features and cooed, "If ye want it back, come and claim it, _boy."_

James lunged forward, the stolen sword sparking against the pristine blade of his true cutlass. But despite Jones' taunts, no doubt meant to throw him off, James remained focused. He was a celebrated swordsman, and not many could surpass him with a blade. This became obvious after several meetings of their swords where it appeared James might actual win the bout.

Of course, with most opponents, James wouldn't have to worry about a clawed appendage. Which was why when the pincers closed around his neck, he was completely unprepared for it. It was as if they were playing a game of chess and his opponent had decided to take an axe to the board rather than follow the rules.

But honestly, what had James expected would happen against the dread captain of the _Dutchman?_ That he would fight fair?

Jones leaned forward, clearly enjoying the way James tried to squirm out of his iron-clad grip.

"Yer soul is mine, Norrington. And this body belongs to the _Dutchman."_

James felt something hard begin to crawl over his boots, and he tried to see what was happening but couldn't look past Jones' claw-like limb. He attempted to lift his feet but found they wouldn't move, and he realized he was stuck to the deck of the ship.

Jones gave a halting, hearty chuckle at the panicked expression on James' face. His laughter turned to a startled shout when a blade crashed through the meat of his claw. Bits of shell exploded into the air as a cutlass was yanked free, and James was released.

The captain jerked his head around, followed by his body, and James turned his head to also stare at the man who had dared plunge his sword into Jones' arm.

Or rather, the woman who had dared.

"Still trying to protect yer charge?" Jones asked a high, mocking tone, his head slightly tilted. "When did yer ilk grow so soft for the likes of men?"

Ona held the cutlass toward his chest, looking as if she would attempt to stab him again even though she must know it would do nothing. Nothing… but distract him. Is that what she was doing?

James determined yes, that's exactly what she was doing, when as she began to back away she sent James a fleeting glance, one he understood to mean _'get moving!'_

But when he saw what Jones had done to him, he knew moving was going to be quite impossible. The wood of the deck had warped and twisted until it had grown up to his calves, effectively rooting him in place. Already, barnacles were sprouting from the cuffs of his boots, and he knew it was only a matter of time before he was covered with them.

While Ona kept Jones distracted, James began to hack at the warped wood with his sword, using the tip to chip away at it while being careful not to stab his own feet. It would take time, time they didn't have, and he pressed himself to go faster. Even if he did cut himself, it wasn't as if it would harm him to any significant degree.

"Why do ye take such special interest in this particular soul?" Jones asked, sounding genuinely curious. Apparently he hadn't noticed the unspoken exchange, his focus remaining solely on Ona. "Especially a soul as battered and broken as this one?"

"I could ask you the same," she answered, continuing to draw Jones away at a steady pace. "You have made great efforts to retrieve this man, and even more to keep him. Why?"

"Because it is my _right!"_ he snapped, water spilling from his lips. "My right as captain of this ship!"

"A role you have abused because of your own selfish heart!"

James paused, looking up at the sound of real anger in her voice. She wasn't simply distracting him now—her full attention was on Jones. The rain had completely drenched her at this point, her hair hanging in twisted locks, but her eyes burned with a blue fire that couldn't be doused.

"Calypso tasked you with protecting the souls of the dead because she believed only you were worthy of it!" she shouted up at him, her features twisting into something almost painful.

Jones had completely frozen at that point, his face a mask, but not one of anger. Almost like… he was really listening.

"She trusted you and you betrayed that trust!" she yelled, her anguished words carried on the wind. "You told the Brethren Court how to capture her. Strip away who she was and reduce her to a mockery. Because of your cruel act of betrayal, you took her away from the sea! From _us!"_

She was the embodiment of righteous fury. James expected for Jones to return the fury with his own, except his anger had been extinguished. For a moment, the captain looked like the shell of a brokenhearted man. He was… _grieving_. James had known having the chest near vexed him, but he hadn't fully understood why. Now, he did.

"You abandoned the souls you were charged with! You abandoned your duty! You lost the right to captain this ship long ago, Davy Jones!"

Ona barely dodged out of the way in time as Jones gave a bellowing roar and lunged, James' stolen sword cutting through the rain with vicious intent.

It seemed Jones had found his rage.

With equal fervor, James hacked away at the wood trapping him in place, seeing promising glimpses of his brown boots under the warped planks. He stole glimpses upward to see Ona fending off Jones' advancing attacks. She was very skilled herself, but he could see her energy flagging. Even if Ona had been at her best, it wouldn't have mattered. Jones couldn't be stopped. Not this way.

As James continued to chop at the wood, he looked around for the chest but couldn't find it. It must have slid somewhere else from the pitch and roll of the wave-tossed ship.

Just one more bloody complication.

The sound of clashing and clanging metal paused, and James looked up to find Jones had pinned Ona against the railing, locking their blades together in a battle of wills and strength.

One she was clearly going to lose.

"If it's any consolation to ye, ye'll join yer Mother when I toss yer lifeless body overboard," Jones derided her. He pressed his weight down on the blade, and even from the other side of the deck, James could see her blade tremble as she attempted to hold him at bay.

"It'll be your body that pitches into the sea after I stab your heart," Ona snarled back, her eyes almost feral with the amount of hatred contained within them.

Jones blinked and slightly jerked his head, as if in surprise, but then the cruel grin was back on his face.

"It seems I was in error. Ye do not seek revenge for Calypso… No… Ye seek vengeance for the death of the mortal captain. _Hah!"_ He snorted dismissively, giving her a look that was almost pitying. "All men die. And most of the miserable bastards deserve it. I should think ye of all creatures would understand."

He lowered his face until only the crossed blades were between them, and Jones said something to her, too soft for James to hear. He was almost free, just a few more slashes. But then he saw Ona's expression change to one of pure hatred, and he knew he was out of time.

James tugged hard on his boots, and he felt the slightest amount of give. But then the sound of clashing swords made him look up again, and he froze, all the blood draining from his face.

Ona had managed to shove the dread captain back, using the advantage she had since the ship was tilted away from her and towards him. She slashed at Jones once. Twice. He parried her strokes with effortless ease. And then he swung around so hard that James could actually see the impact travel up her arm, and then she was flailing, losing her balance…

…and fell backwards over the side of the railing.

_"__No!"_

Jones stood there for a moment, staring at the place she had disappeared. But James' wretched shout must have finally caught his attention, because the _Dutchman's _captain turned toward him. The triumphant grin he had expected to see was absent, an angry void dominating his features. It reminded James of the maelstrom off their portside. Violent, all-consuming, without mercy.

Jones stalked towards him, and James had no doubt by the murderous intent in his eyes what he planned to do once he reached him. James dropped his sword entirely and pulled with dire desperation at the top of his boots. He was so close, so _close, _but the wood seemed to refuse to let him go, as if it were a living thing, as if—

James snapped his head up and watched as Jones descended on him, about to skewer him with his own gilded sword. If James was going to die, he would do it staring his enemy in the face. Just as he had in his last death.

He had a feeling this one would be of a more permanent variety.

But just over Jones' crusted, barnacled shoulder, there was a miraculous sight. Ona had reappeared, climbing over the railing of the ship, wet and bloodied but alive.

The feeling of joy and relief that had blossomed in his chest quickly died when James watched her reach into her dress and pull out the long, ornate dirk. She held it tightly in her right hand, either ignoring or unfeeling of the pain in her broken wrist, and she descended on Jones like a veritable angel of war.

It was unclear how Jones knew. Perhaps a perceptible shift in James' sight line. Or a preternatural ability that allowed the dread captain to sense when danger was near. Whatever the reason, he paused for the single span of a heartbeat, his expression almost thoughtful.

And then Jones whirled around, grasped her descending wrist in his pincer, and plunged James' sword, up to the hilt, through her stomach.


	32. Slipshod

_**just a little tidbit before the grand finale. thank you for all of your thoughts and prayers for all these poor characters i torment.**_

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"All men die. And most of the miserable bastards deserve it. I should think ye of all creatures would understand."

Ona stared up at the hated monster that was once Calypso's lover. She wanted to kill him, resurrect him, and kill him again. No number of deaths could have satisfied her, because no matter what she did to Jones, she would never see Franklin again. No amount of death or sacrifice could bring him back.

Unless… it _was_ possible. If she killed Jones and became the new captain, who knew what powers that would grant her? Calypso herself could bring back Franklin, a reward for ending Jones' tyranny of the seas.

All thoughts of plans and schemes vanished from her head as Jones leaned forward, his face so close she could see all of the details and coloration of his twisted features.

"Ye shoulda known better than to grow attached to mortals. They're so very fragile. Even yer beloved James Norrington is not impervious to death. In fact…" Jones gave her a slow, curdling grin. "I'm goin' to send yer precious _charge _to the Locker. And because I'm feeling generous, ye can watch as I skewer his heart on his own blade."

The molten fire that coursed through her veins was like nothing she had felt before. It fueled her muscles and gave her the strength to shove Jones back, breaking the lock of their blades. Ona swung her sword again and again, too incensed to do anything else, her only thought of making Jones bleed and beg and _die._

His returning blow, already savage in its force, hit her blade just as the ship rolled toward the portside. Ona lost her balance as the railing slammed into her lower back, sending her over the railing and into the air.

It was by a stroke of luck, or maybe fate, that her left arm got caught in a loose stay line, stopping her fall. The force of the stop was so severe that it ripped something within her arm as she slammed against the hard wood of the hull. A ligament or a tendon, she didn't know, but the pain was tremendous. Ona could barely draw breath through it, and she closed her eyes as the ship rolled back, causing waves to crash against legs, attempting to pull her into the sea.

She couldn't die. Not here. Jones was going to send Norrington to the Locker, and only he knew where the chest was. That was all she could focus on at the moment—she could not afford to dwell on why the thought of Norrington's death upset her so.

There was only the chest. And vengeance.

Through the agony of her damaged joints and muscles, Ona somehow climbed up the rope and pulled herself over the railing. She saw Norrington was still alive, but her brief flash of relief immediately vanished as Jones descended on him.

As she pulled Beckett's dirk from her dress pocket, she focused on the bulbous sack on the back of Jones' head, just peeking out from under his tricorne. She had noticed it before, and had been immediately reminded of an air bladder by the way it inflated and deflated. Many fish used such organs to help them stay afloat, and she suspected that by the way it fluctuated it helped him breathe above water.

Puncturing his ability to breathe would most definitely slow Davy Jones and distract him long enough for her to free Norrington from where he was trapped.

Ona raised the dirk and lunged forward, swinging the blade down and—

The bite of the blade sinking into her body was so shocking and sudden, that it had happened before she'd realized Jones had turned around. He had also caught her wrist in his claw, and the dirk fell from her hand as her grip went slack.

Jones' visage filled her entire field of vision. His eyes were cold and sharp as an iceberg, but the cruel humor found there before was gone. He did not mock her as he killed her, and for that, she was almost grateful. Dying was humiliation enough.

When the blade had entered her, she hadn't truly felt it, just a sort of strange, tugging sensation. And when Jones pulled the sword from her body, all of the strength in her limbs gave out, and she slumped to the deck. Boneless and broken.

The wood was cold, drenched by rain and seawater, and it was hard on her battered body. The pain radiated from somewhere far away as the numbness of shock began to seep into her.

_Is this what it's like?_ Ona wondered faintly, distantly aware she was struggling to take a full breath. She stared up at the grey, churning sky, the raindrops landing on her cheeks like tears. _Is it always this cold?_

She was so tired, too tired to even conjure up a silent apology to Franklin for failing him. All she could do was stare up at the storm and wonder if Mother was looking down on her now. Mournfully, or with disappointment?

Perhaps it was better this way. She had lived too long and endured too much. Perhaps… she could even see Franklin again.

_Perhaps… Perhaps…_

Ona's eyes fluttered shut and the chaos of storm and battle grew quiet. She had failed to stab the heart, but she hoped someone would succeed. She hoped it was that young man. William Turner.

And then Norrington could… be free…

The unending darkness called to her. Chanted her name. Shouted it. Spoke it with a soft whisper of denial.

No… not _death_. This voice was familiar. Comfortingly so. It was drawing her back, pulling her from the edge, luring her with its pleasing timbre. The voice was afraid, desperate, but no less lovely for it.

Despite her eyelids feeling as if they were constructed of lead, Ona was able to open them again. The rain was no longer hitting her face—a dark silhouette was blocking her view of the sky. Something warm cradled the side of her face, and she sighed with heavy relief.

Norrington was kneeling over her, his sea-green eyes wide and frightened. It was his hand she felt, cupping her cheek, bringing heat where there had been nothing but cold before.

The admiral's expression softened when their gazes met. She wanted to comfort him, tell him it was all right. It didn't even hurt, now. She was just so tired… Why wouldn't he let her sleep…

He was hazy, moving in and out of focus; try as she might, Ona couldn't keep her eyes open any longer. When they closed again, she heard him calling her name from a great distance. And then she felt her body lifted up, held tightly within a warm, steady embrace.

Ona wanted to open her eyes, wanted to see his face one last time, but the black waves pulled her under. And she could not refute them.


	33. Heady Tonic

As Ona fell, James' heart simultaneously plunged in his chest.

The horror which ripped through him was like nothing he had ever experienced. Even his own death had not been so distressing; he had accepted it, more or less. But not this. He felt as if Jones had plunged the sword through him instead.

James was free of the wood now—he wasn't sure if he had finally succeeded in freeing himself, or if Jones had released him. It didn't matter, his mind could only focus on one single thought as his knees hit the deck and he bowed over Ona's still form. Desperate and terrified.

_Please. Please, still live._

He gripped her by the shoulders and pulled her onto her back. Another wave of horror washed over him at the spreading circle of red originating from her stomach.

James was so panicked he didn't stop to think that if the circle was still spreading, then there was a heart still beating. Instead of being rational, he gripped each side of her head in his hands and called her name in a desperate prayer.

_"__Ona!_ Ona, please. Open your eyes!"

"It will do you no good, Admiral," he heard from somewhere above him. James ignored Jones taunting jab. He had to. If he looked up and caught sight of the blackguard, he knew he would lose what reason remained to him. James couldn't do that. She needed him.

"Ona," he begged of her, unable to do anything else. "Please, open your eyes."

Miraculously, she must have heard him. Her lashes fluttered, her eyes moving under her lids like a sleeper struggling to awaken. And then… they opened. The sight of those Northern Sea eyes was enough to nearly undo him. James stroked her cheek, unknowingly, too beyond relief to realize what he was doing.

She was alive. And somehow, despite everything that had happened and was still happening, that seemed to be the only thing that mattered.

For a suspended moment in time, she met James' gaze. He got the distinct impression she was trying to focus on his face, but it must have been too much for her, because her eyes slid away from him and her eyes drifted close once more.

"Ona? _Ona!"_

She was unresponsive. James reached down and gripped underneath her knees and shoulder blades and lifted her up, cradling her in his arms as he rose to his feet. The point of a sword hovered near his face, aimed directly between his eyes. James stared at the hateful dread captain, violent thoughts racing across his mind of all the things he would do to Jones if Ona didn't survive.

Jones opened his mouth to speak, but whatever sneering comment he was going to make was lost to the wind as a figure swung effortlessly onto the deck. She drew her sword and pointed it directly at the fiend.

The last person he expected to be there now stood resolutely between him and Jones.

_"__Harridan!"_ Jones snarled, his tentacles visibly squirming in agitation. "Ye'll see no mercy from me!"

"That's why I brought this!" Elizabeth snarled back, brandishing her sword at him. She spared a quick glance at James over her shoulder and yelled, _"Go!"_

James didn't want to leave Elizabeth to fight Jones by herself, but he couldn't stay either. Unlike him, with his strange, newfound immortality, Ona was going to bleed out if he didn't act. He hadn't even had time to staunch her wound, and each beat of her heart brought her closer to death.

Elizabeth glanced downwards at the woman James held in his arms, but despite the brief confusion that flickered across her face, she wasted no time in turning back to Jones and held her cutlass with unquestionable steadfastness.

As they began to do battle, James cast his eyes across the maelstrom to the opposing black-sail galleon. He took a steadying breath, braced his feet against the tilted deck, and _pushed._

That was the only way to describe the action that would transport him across distance in the blink of an eye. It was as if he mentally pushed himself from one place to another, and though he would perhaps never understand how it worked, he was improving his aim.

Colors and wind and sound and light blurred around him for a confusing fraction of a moment, and then he was there. Standing, or rather wobbling, on the deck of the _Black Pearl._

It was no less chaotic on this ship than the last. _Dutchman _crew and Company marines fought pirates for supremacy of the battle. And just as on the _Dutchman_, it was unapparent who was winning.

James checked to be sure Ona had survived the journey. She was still breathing, though each breath was shallow and almost impossible to catch in the gale around them. He gazed frantically around, trying to orient himself and determine where best to keep Ona safe. The last thing he expected to see was a (relatively) friendly face.

_"__Joshamee Gibbs!"_

The older man in question paused and then whipped around, his sword held out in front of him, slick with blackish liquid. He narrowed his eyes and screwed up his face against the stinging rain. Then his eyes widened in startled recognition.

_"__Admiral?"_

He bit his tongue to stop himself from correcting Gibbs. There would be plenty of time to catch up later, if they all survived.

"Mister Gibbs, where is the safest place on this ship!" James yelled to the older pirate as they met on the quarterdeck. Gibbs glanced down at the bleeding, battered woman in his arms, and his round eyes grew even rounder.

"That would be the Cap'n's quarters, I imagine," he responded, his tone a mixture of curiosity and grimness. James knew how dire Ona's condition looked, but he couldn't stop to think about that either, otherwise he might lose his resolve entirely.

"Escort me there, if you please, Mister Gibbs," James responded with a terse tone. The pirate was doing entirely too much gawking and not enough _moving._

Gibbs gave him a short _"aye" _and turned back down to the maindeck, his cutlass held out as he prepared to swat aside any enemy combatants that seemed to take interest in them. None did, and soon they were within the relatively dry captain's cabin.

James spotted the double bed situated in the corner, the length of it pressed to the wall and the head of the bed just below the windows. He laid Ona down on top of the bed and pulled off one of the sheets and pressed it to her stomach, not taking into consideration the blood that would soon be staining the cloth. Or, more likely, he did consider it, but considering who the captain was, James just didn't care.

"Find the surgeon supplies and grab what you can," James ordered Gibbs in a terse tone. He held his free hand in front of Ona's lips, and breathed in relief when he felt a warm puff of air across his wrist.

"Towels, cloth for dressings, boiled water or clear alcohol if you have it. Hell, I'll take the surgeon too if he still lives."

"Aye," Gibbs responded in quick affirmation, and was out the door in an instant. James immediately turned back to study Ona's damp, pale face. She had not awakened again, and James was a little grateful for that. The shock of enduring the kind of wound she had was no small matter, and it might even be safer for her to still be unconscious.

_What if she never awakens?_

James shoved out the unnerving question before he could think on it too long. It would do him no good to worry over what he couldn't control. Ona needed him at his best if she had any chance of surviving this dire situation.

He heard heavy boot falls behind him and James glanced over his shoulder to see Gibbs had returned, carrying an armful of towels and bottles, his hands clutching a bucket of water.

"It's not been boiled, no time for that," Gibbs explained nervously as he carefully set the supplies down on the ever-moving floor. "But I figure it'll still be good for cleanin'. At least, our hands and such. We, er," he said rather nervously, "don't have a surgeon. I'm prob'ly the closest we have to one."

"That's all right, Mister Gibbs," James spoke in a tone that was clipped but not hard. He appraised the older pirate with a confidence he didn't feel, and an optimism that wasn't there. "We will simply make do. The wound must be cleaned first with alcohol. I remember that much from my own experience. Now, hand me that towel and one of the bottles."

Gibbs did as he was asked without question. As James cleansed the wound—a bloody but clean slit, and why wouldn't it be, James' sword was impressively sharp—he glanced up to be sure she was still breathing. Perhaps realizing where he was needed most, Gibbs moved to the head of the bed and knelt down to place his ear next to her mouth. He gave James a slight nod and a small, reassuring smile.

_Good man,_ James thought as he continued to clean Ona's wound with the alcohol and towel. Gibbs still knew how to follow orders, and would still follow them even if the man giving the orders was… questionable. Perhaps Gibbs was following old habits—he had served under James for quite a number of years.

Or perhaps, like any decent person would, he had seen the dire circumstances and decided to help as best he could. It only improved his esteem in James' eyes.

"She's a fighter."

Gibbs' voice broke through the odd quiet of the captain's cabin. James could still hear the battle raging on deck, and the sheets of rain beat against the windows, but it was muffled and far away and not very important.

"That she is," James responded quietly. If there was a hint of fondness in his voice, neither of them reacted to it

"Who is she?" he asked, voice oddly hushed. "Friend o' yers?"

James remained silent as he began to lay the clean cloth bandages across the wound. With the blood wiped clean and reduced to a small trickle, it seemed so small and harmless. He knew it wasn't. There was no way to know the internal damage that had been caused by his pristine blade.

An unpleasant jolt of guilt traveled through his gut.

"A companion of unfortunate circumstances," James explained softly, without really explaining at all. But Gibbs raised his eyebrows and nodded, as if it made complete sense.

"Nasty wound, that." Gibbs paused, his expression suddenly nervous. "I hope one of ours didn't give it to her."

"It was Jones," he responded low, almost a growl. "I think Ona was… attempting to distract him when his focus turned to me. Foolish." This last was muttered more to himself than to Gibbs, a surprising note of bitterness in his voice.

Gibbs matched that bitter tone with one that was gentle and undeservedly sympathetic.

"Yer too hard on yerself, Admiral."

"I'm no admiral. Not anymore," James sharply responded, unable to help himself as he unwillingly recalled their tense encounter in Tortuga. James had been recruited to Sparrow's crew, and what a low point that had been in his life.

"Ah. Well. I suppose…" Gibbs trailed off.

James had finished bandaging the wound and his eyes remained steadfastly on the clean bandage, as if expecting to see more crimson break through. It remained free of blood, and out of sudden, irrational fear, James grabbed Ona's hand to feel for himself that the lack of blood was not due to a stilled heart.

Her skin was cold, to the point of worry, so James rubbed her hand between his, hoping to leech some warmth into her flesh. He hadn't realized his shirtsleeve had slipped down enough to reveal the emerald scales on his forearm until he caught Gibbs staring. James released Ona's hand only long enough to tug up the sleeve, purposefully exposing the hard scales to glint dully in the light.

"This is what I am now, Mister Gibbs," he said wanly, all hope gone from his voice, replaced by grim acceptance.

The older pirate crossed himself, gave an apologetic wince to James, and then said, "Yer a bound soul to that dread ship."

"Unless Jones is killed and replaced as captain," he responded dully. "By the sound of storm and cannon fire, it's clear the fiend still lives." James looked down at Ona's pale face, and brief despondency passed over his. How had everything gone so wrong so quickly? This was not what was supposed to happen. If anyone should be a sacrifice, it should be him. He had no future, nothing to live for, and his ledger was filled with crimson. And Ona's name might be yet another signed in red ink.

"I was planning on ridding the world of him myself, but then… this happened." He found himself unable to put into words the horror of it. That this woman may very well die by his sword in the hands of a monster.

"I can look after her, Ad—er, Mister Norrington, sir," Gibbs piped up in a surprisingly chipper voice. "If ye needs to return to the fight, that is. I'll watch o'er her as if she were me own blood," Gibbs added nervously when James focused his attention on him.

He appraised the older man carefully, weighing the merits of his suggestion. James couldn't do much more here; he was no surgeon and his presence would add nothing to Ona's recovery. But there was still a fight to be won, and the others (_Elizabeth,_ his traitorous mind whispered) certainly could use his aid.

James rose to his feet and gave Gibbs a firm, almost reproachful look, one the older man would be familiar with from his days as a navyman.

"See that you do, Mister Gibbs. She has…" He trailed off before picking up again, struggling to find the words and sort through his own complicated feelings. "…endured more than she deserves."

He thought that was true, from what little he had gleaned in conversations between her and Jones. There was tragedy that lingered below the waters, and James had only skimmed the surface. In fact, that was true of Ona in general. He had caught a fleeting glimpse of something wondrous but difficult to understand, and he wondered if he would ever get the chance to. Or if she would just slip away, with no one left who knew her to mourn.

_No,_ he realized. James would mourn. He could feel it already, the grief waiting in the wings for the opportune moment to make its appearance.

James shook the dire thoughts from his mind, forced to pay attention as Gibbs nodded and affirmed his unofficial orders. He didn't feel too guilty about pulling Gibbs from the battle (and he certainly didn't feel guilty about occupying the attention and time of Jack Sparrow's first mate). Besides, James would be taking his place, and he fully ended to end the battle in one swift, final execution.

"I will return as soon as I can," he told the older pirate. And with one last, lingering look, he turned and left the cabin.

When James returned to the chaotic scene on deck, he narrowed his eyes against the violent downpour. Instead of taking the risk of the more unnatural method of ship-to-ship transportation, James grabbed a loose clewline and swung across the open maw of the maelstrom in what he would lately reflect should have been a very harrowing act.

But James barely glanced at the swirling vortex beneath him. He had eyes only for Jones. And there he was, fighting against both Elizabeth and Turner now. It was a portent of his deadly focus on the captain that he didn't even feel a tinge of jealousy at the sight of them together. If anything, James was grateful Elizabeth hadn't been forced to battle Jones alone after he had fled to the _Black Pearl._

The boy's father was nowhere in sight, but James seriously doubted the son would cause him any lasting harm. No matter how many times the cursed man tried (or succeeded in) killing James, he was still Turner's father, and James couldn't hold it against Turner for not killing him.

James didn't join the fight, however, his attention drawn toward the item that was at the center of everything. All the suffering and loss and death. The chest was wedged between the stairs and the railing, and he descended on it quickly. He grasped the cold, wet metal in his hands and turned the chest around to face him… and froze at the sight of the key in the lock.

James lifted the lid and found its contents emptied.

_"__Looking for this, mate?"_ a familiar and aggravating voice called to him over the thunderous storm.

James leapt to his feet and whipped around in one fluid motion, pulling his sword and pointing it at Sparrow's chest. The pirate seemed unfazed at the piece of metal aimed at his heart, perhaps because he had his own piece of metal pointed down at the heart in his hand. It beat with a grotesque motion, and blood seeped from the organ to mix with the falling rain in pinkish rivulets down the pirate's fingers.

"Heady tonic," Sparrow remarked with a triumphant smirk, "holdin' life and death in the palm of one's hand."

James stared at the hateful object. The bane of his existence. The beginning of his downfall and the physical representation of his failings. He lowered the point of his sword to the deck, looking up at Sparrow with an expression of grim finality.

"Well?" he asked tersely. "What are you waiting for? End it."

Sparrow's brows furrowed as he frowned, giving James a look that bespoke of suspicion. But this wasn't a game, and James was tired. He wanted to be done with it all. And the sooner Jones was destroyed, the sooner he could return to Ona. There had to be a way to save her, but that chance could not be afforded until the captain of the _Dutchman_ was no more.

And if that meant James had to spend the rest of eternity serving under Sparrow, even if it meant being harried and humiliated every moment of all of his remaining days, then it was a small price to pay.

"Do it, Sparrow!" he shouted to be heard over the wind and rain, but there was a steel edge of anger in his tone. "Do it and let it be done!"

But still, the pirate did not stab the heart. Instead, he seemed… indecisive. Torn, staring at James as if he was having some sort of internal strife. James was about to yell at him to stab the _damned thing_ or be_ damned_ himself when a heart-wrenching scream rent the air.

James and Sparrow both turned to see a horrific scene laid out before them, as if on the stage of a great Shakespearean tragedy. Jones was standing over William Turner, James' own sword struck through the boy's chest. The scream had come from Elizabeth, who had been disarmed and knocked to the deck sometime during the fight.

She crawled over to his impaled body, her shaking hands cradling Turner's face as she begged for him to stay with her, to not leave her, that he would be all right if he just kept his eyes open and looked at her.

Jones gave his slow, cruel laughter, but it was abruptly cut off as Turner's father leapt onto his back in a fit of lucid rage.

James felt a helpless sort of sorrow as he watched the tragic play unfold. He had little reason to like Turner, but at the end of the day, he was a good man who loved Elizabeth. And at the end of the day, while James might also love Elizabeth, he was not a good man. And it was for this reason that James knew what had to happen next.

He turned to Sparrow, opening his mouth to speak, but paused when he saw the look on his face. The pirate was frozen, a broken sword in one hand and heart in the other, and his gaze was focused solely on Turner. It was such a curious expression, filled with such horror and agony that it made James realize Sparrow wasn't nearly as aloof and detached as he pretended to be.

The pirate looked down at the still-beating heart, then up to the dying boy, trapped in pained indecision. He then looked to James, his expression so lost that James could almost commiserate with the pirate.

"You know what needs to be done," James told him, low and somber. "There's only one way to spare Turner his fate." He didn't know if Sparrow would understand what he meant, but James knew that he did when his marooned expression morphed into something resolute and his eyes fell to the dying boy.

Satisfied Sparrow would do the right thing—a statement he never imagined he would make in his life—James turned to where the cursed captain and his crewman still tussled. Turner Senior was barely holding his own, and it wasn't long before Jones had him pressed to the railing.

Amidst the debris and detritus on deck, it wasn't difficult for James to find what he needed. Rounding on the captain, he brought down his chunk of wood as hard as he could. With a resounding and very satisfying crack, his weapon broke in two over Jones' devil-horn hat.

James' smirk faded as Jones spun around and fixed him with a baleful glare. He didn't have time to retreat, or even move, before those hard pincers were fixed around his neck again, this time lifting him up and choking him. He clawed at the hard, armor-like shell, but there was no Ona to rescue him this time.

"Ye will not forestall my judgement!" Jones spat in bitter loathing. Something creaked in his neck as the pressure increased.

This was it, he thought. Where would he go when he died again? Was there a special place in Hell reserved for men who were damned long before they were cursed? He didn't know, but he had a feeling his mortal departure would not be circumvented by a miraculous resurrection this time.

And then, just as suddenly as he had snatched James within his claw, Jones let him go. James stumbled backward, rubbing at his throbbing neck as he warily eyed the captain, preparing for another assault. But it never came.

Jones' expression was confusion, his face tentacles writhing in distress. His pale eyes slid past where James stood and alighted on something a few paces away. James also turned to look, and what he saw amazed him.

Sparrow was kneeling next to Turner, gripping the boy's hand over the hilt of the broken sword. The jagged end pinned a small, bloody object to the deck.

Jones' heart.

The dread captain slowly raised his face skyward, his eyes half-shut as the rain poured down his face. He held an expression filled with what James couldn't deny: deliverance from his eternal torment and agony.

Jones uttered a single word, tender and soft, and then spilled backwards over the railing, and vanished.

It was over. Or at least, that's what James believed, until the deck beneath his feet violently rolled. He heard a thunderous _crack_ and looked upward to see the mainmasts of the two ships, which had somehow become entangled, now breaking free of each other. The _Pearl _sped up and away from the epicenter of the maelstrom, but the _Dutchman_ began to spiral toward the dark abyss.

The crew had begun to move. James felt an overwhelming pulse move through him, a mental compulsion that desired him to move toward Turner. It also desired him to do something so unspeakable that it broke him out of his trance, causing him to move to Sparrow's side in jerky, clumsy movements. His body was no longer his own, after all, and the _Dutchman_ desired her captain.

_Part of the crew, part of the ship…_ The chant began all around him, and he had to bite his tongue to not join with them.

"You must go," James ordered Sparrow and Elizabeth in a hoarse voice.

Sparrow gave him that familiar look of sharp sorrow he had given Turner, and it made his chest tighten with dread as James looked down at himself. His hands were splayed across the deck, but they were no longer hands, now emerald talons once more. He realized his voice wasn't hoarse from Jones nearly strangling him, but due to the slits that had grown in behind his ears.

Except, they were no longer ears either, but small, sharp fins.

_Part of the crew, part of the ship…_

"Go!" James yelled in immediate fear. "Go, _now!"_

An intense feeling of _déjà vu_ swept over him, and James knew Elizabeth felt it too when she looked at him. Further horror dawned on her face as he plead, "You must go, Elizabeth!"

Turner Senior was descending on them now, ahead of the group, holding a knife in his hand. Sparrow must have understood what was about to happen, because he moved fast, grabbing Elizabeth by the arms as he began to drag her away.

_"__No!"_ she screamed, fighting wildly against Sparrow's grip. _"I can't! I can't lose you both!"_

James expected the pain to cinch around his heart, but he felt strangely empty. The dark influenced pulsed through him again, and again, and he knew it was only a matter of seconds before he lost himself completely.

_"__Leave!"_

His bellow this time was not directed at Elizabeth, but at Sparrow. The pirate gave a nod, and with a hand around her waist, he pulled Elizabeth back toward the gunwale.

James watched as the crew surrounded him on all sides, but they weren't focused on him. Turner Senior knelt down in front of his son, and intoned the cursed words that sent a shiver down James' spine.

"The _Dutchman_ must have a captain."

The father brought down the knife, burying it into his son's chest, and then began to cut. James forced his gaze away and searched for the pirate and his ex-fiancée, hoping to find them gone. They weren't, but at least they were free and clear of the entranced crew.

Elizabeth was still struggling against Sparrow but the pirate had kept ahold of her, a coil of rope wound around one arm, and then he fired a short musket from one hand. The shot blasted through the clewlines holding the mizzen topgallant sail in place, lifting them both from the deck of the ship as the freed sail caught the wind and floated them away.

James would have hardly believed it unless he had seen it himself, and in that moment, he realized what a fool he had been to waste so many lives hunting down this man. Sparrow was a clever fiend, a dastardly criminal, and a feckless pirate, but he was a pirate who had saved Elizabeth's life more than once. And for that, James could forgive him for everything.

As the waves crashed onto the deck, James closed his eyes and surrendered to the dark impulses. The emptiness washed over him and dragged him down, just as surely as the maelstrom dragged the_ Dutchman_ into its crushing depths.

* * *

_**see? no more major cliffhangers. though i do enjoy y'alls reactions so much.**_

_**i bet u think itll be smooth sailing with Will as captain. lol**_


	34. The Tides of Fate

James' return to awareness was like waking from a very bad dream.

It was slow and halting, and left him somewhat confused as he dragged his feet across the deck. He winced and narrowed his eyes against the bright light. _Sunlight?_ Yes, sunlight, glistening off wet wood and tackle and lines. The air was warm and there was a calm breeze where once there had been a raging gale.

A tingling sensation covered his skin, demanding his attention, and James looked down to see his green scales falling away to land benignly on the deck. His fingernails were short and blunted, no longer flesh-tearing claws. He raised his hands to his face and felt nothing but smooth skin and rough stubble.

Relief transformed into joy so sharp James nearly sobbed. His emotions were expressed on the crew around him, wonderment and jubilation on their faces as coral, barnacles, scales, and other bits of sea flora sloughed from their skin, revealing their lost humanity.

James raised his head and stared in awe at their new captain. Where once had been a boy now stood a man, confident and assured as he steered the helm. Despite the jagged scar that ran across his chest, Turner's expression was hopeful and light.

James had to admit, he looked like he had been born to this new role.

The shock of his transformation had momentarily distracted him, but now James rushed to the starboard side and looked out, searching for the _Pearl._ He breathed in relief when he caught sight of her black sails, the ship looking worse for wear but still sound enough to float.

_Ona._

He blinked in surprise. Hers was not the name James would have expected to be at the forefront of his mind. He had thought he would be frantic to know if Elizabeth made it to safety, all things considered. And while he was concerned to know she was all right, it was Ona and her precarious state that now consumed his thoughts.

James was impatient, wanting to return to the _Pearl_ immediately, but he realized their captain had something else in mind when Turner yelled, "Ready on the guns!"

The _Dutchman_ was aimed directly at the _Pearl _and raced her on a path of collision. But off to their portside sat the Endeavor, fat and lazy in the sun as if lording over her new domain. Turner yanked the wheel and the _Dutchman_ turned; Sparrow must have had the same thought, because the_ Pearl_ did the same, and now the two ships sped toward their joint prey.

Beckett was about to receive a very unpleasant surprise. James lips curled into a dark smile, full of predatory anticipation as the two ships eclipsed the naval battleship on opposing sides.

And then…

_"__Fire!"_ Turner yelled.

_"__Fire!"_ James repeated the order, savoring the feel as the crew scrambled to obey. The cannons sounded immediately, no need to readjust their aim at such close range, and smoke filled the air.

The _Endeavor _began to rip apart at the seams.

He did feel a flicker of guilt at seeing the marines scramble across the exploding deck, and he prayed they would make it into the water in time. The command to abandon ship had not been given immediately, as it should have been, and James wondered if Beckett had expected them all to go down with the ship. James wouldn't put it past the devilish man.

The two ships were now in full view of each other, the _Endeavor_ passed between them, and the English warship was ripped asunder as the powder magazine went up. All that remained was a burning skeleton. Dozens of marines floundered in the water, holding on to what flotsam they could, and James was gladdened to see the _Pearl _throwing ropes down to them. Their brig would be full, as would the _Dutchman's._

Beckett's flagship was destroyed. And the Royal armada had not come. They had won the day. Cheers ascended from not just the _Pearl_, but all of the pirate ships. James couldn't join them. His dark joy of seeing Beckett's ambition reduced to ashes had not lasted long, and now all he wanted was to return to the _Pearl._

And just like that, within the blink of an eye, James was standing on a different deck, surrounded by a different crew. He had barely felt the shift this time, and he wasn't sure whether he should be proud or disturbed by his improving grasp on his unnatural abilities.

Pushing aside the troubled thoughts for a later time, James quietly slipped below deck and made his way to the captain's quarters. When he opened the door, he fully expected to see Gibbs absent, having returned to his first mate duties. But the older man was still there, steadfast and unmoving by Ona's side. His expression was grim and worried as he looked up at James, but it was not pitying or sympathetic, so he took it as a good sign.

"Is she…?" He didn't have the heart or the bravery to finish the question.

"Yer friend still draws breath," Gibbs said with a small smile, one probably meant to be reassuring but was still tinged with sadness. "She's a right, true fighter."

James tried to remain composed and keep his features schooled as he sat on the edge of the bed. He reached for her hand and gripped it in his. It felt even colder now.

"You have my gratitude, Mister Gibbs," he spoke quietly. "I apologize for distracting you from your duties, but you will be gladdened to hear Beckett's ship was destroyed, and it appears the Royal fleet will not engage the pirates in battle." He paused and allowed himself a faint if tired smile as he adds, "Jones has been slain and Turner has replaced him as captain."

"By God, I didn't think ye had been gone _that_ long. I missed the whole war!" Gibbs exclaimed in astonishment as he rose to his feet. James didn't have time to respond, because a voice cried out from behind them:

"_Oi! _Why is there a woman bleedin' all over me silk sheets!"

James was on his feet and standing protectively over the bed faster than Sparrow could cross the room, but not by much. He glared down at the shorter man, waiting for the pirate to dare to try and move past him.

"Cap'n Sparrow, sir," Gibbs spoke up, moving closer as if to interject between the two men but thinking better of it at the last moment. "She's been wounded and Admi—er, Mister Norrington brought her here. She needs a doctor."

"Mister Gibbs," Sparrow said lightly, never taking his eyes off James, "what is the title before me name?"

"Er… Captain?"

"Captain," Sparrow agreed. "Not Doctor Sparrow. Not Surgeon Sparrow. Captain. And these are the Captain's Quarters, not a sick-house, unless I've had me a change of career in the last few minutes."

"You will not remove her," James uttered in a low growl, knowing exactly where this conversation was headed. And by God, he would throw the pirate overboard himself than allow him put Ona in further danger.

"Would ye like to know what happens to men who order me about on me own ship?" the pirate asked in a bored voice as he examined his nails.

"I knew you were a selfish, avarice sort, Sparrow," James accused in a hard tone, "but I didn't know you were cruel."

He saw the corner of Sparrow's eye twitch, but landing a solid insult only brought James marginal satisfaction.

"Ye want to know what's cruel?" the pirate captain drawled as he drew closer, his lips turned into an edged smirk. "Leavin' what, I assume to be your bonnie lass, bleedin' out on me bed instead of findin' her right, proper care."

"In case you didn't _notice_, Sparrow, we were just in the middle of a naval battle—"

The pirate held up his hand, startling James into silence with his interruption.

"Be that as it may, if ye don' seek proper care for her this instant, I'll have to throw you in the brig for," and here, Sparrow muttered a string of ineligible symbols, "and neither of us wants that, do we?"

Sparrow gave James a brief look that he couldn't quite interpret, then jerked his head toward the cabin door and said, "Methinks yer best bet would be Gombo's—sorry, Gentleman Jocard's—fleet. He'll be carryin' _real_ healers, not those crude butchers the King's Navy employs, eh?" he added in a conspiratorial whisper to James.

James could only stare at the pirate captain, his words having abandoned him and fled over the ocean. The idea of asking the pirates for aid was detestable. But was there any other choice? They were far from port, and by the pale quality of Ona's face, she was running out of time.

Still, the fact Sparrow was suggesting something actually_ helpful_ was—

_"__Well?"_ Sparrow snapped, startling both James and Gibbs. "Get to it, then! Pip, pip! Go now, be quick about it, and never fear. I'll watch over yer bonnie lass." He gave a wicked grin.

James gave him a cool look and leaned over to speak to Gibbs, though still loud enough for Sparrow to hear, and he said, "Watch over her. I'll be back as soon as I can."

As he exited the captain's quarters, James heard Sparrow grumble, "First he takes me thump-thump, then me cabin, now he takes me first mate. Bloomer-wearin', bewigged bastard always tryin' to take what's mine."

If James was a better man, he might find some sympathy in his heart for the pirate. But James wasn't a better man, and Sparrow was an even worse one, so he ignored the captain's complaints and went in search of Gentleman Jocard's flagship. Turning to the pirates, especially a Pirate Lord, made his stomach sour, but he had no choice but to swallow his pride and do what needed to be done.

James' request was met with a healthy dose of skepticism from Gentleman Jocard, but his call for aid to save Ona was answered, and the Pirate Lord allowed one of his healers to board the _Black Pearl_ in order to examine her. The healer herself seemed to be older than time, her eyes cloudy milky-white, but her pace was quick and her demeanor was no-nonsense bordering on impatience, which James found quite right.

The healer woman spent only a few moments examining Ona. She prodded the tissue around the wound, pressed two fingers down on various points of her body, including her wrists, shoulders, feet, and knees, and then finally she placed a calloused palm on her forehead and closed her eyes. Silence reigned supreme in the captain's cabin, and even Sparrow managed to be quiet and not offer his inane commentary.

After the healer finished her examination, she spoke a string of fast, unfamiliar words that might have been Swahili or possibly the older _Kingozi_ dialect. It was Sparrow who offered a translation, his tone grim and heavy.

"She says… yer bonnie lass won't make it through the night." He paused, and with a glance toward James that was strangely sympathetic, he added, "I'm sorry, mate."

James remained rooted to the spot, even after the woman had departed. She and Sparrow had exchanged a few words, and even if he could have understood them, James wouldn't have heard. Ona's dire prognosis had sent his aching heart plummeting into his stomach, and he couldn't take his eyes off her, lying on the bloodied silk sheets. He found himself walking towards the bed until he stood at her side, and without stopping to think about it, James lowered his hand and gripped her fingers in his.

They were so very, very cold.

"Oi, former-Admiral."

James ignored Sparrow, unable to even send a barbed look his way.

"Norrington."

This time James did turn around, his hand still clasped firmly around Ona's. He hadn't heard Gibbs leave the room, but he must have at some point, because they were now alone.

"What?" he answered dully, his voice devoid of all feeling. He expected Sparrow's expression to be one of sympathy, which would have been more than James could bear. But no… the pirate captain wasn't looking at James. He was staring at Ona, his brows furrowed and a frown fixed upon his face.

"I… may have misheard Wise Marjani, but… she said something about yer bonnie lass that struck me as… weird." He said this last with a narrowing of his kohl-lined eyes.

"Weird," James parroted.

"Nonsensical. Inscrutable. Cabalistic." Sparrow cleared his throat, hesitated, and then said, "It could be the old witch's dialect, but… I could have sworn… but no, it can't be, that would be utterly discombiblical—"

"Spit it out, Sparrow."

"—mermaid."

Sparrow looked as if he had just swallowed a satchel of sea urchins.

"Mermaid, mate. _Zimwi la bahari_, is what she said, which roughly translates into 'she is of the sea.' And that ye should speak to someone called… Mami Wata?" Sparrow wrinkled his nose and shook his head. "Can't make heads or tails of it. Thought maybe ye could."

James was stunned. Mami Wata. Mother of the Waters.

_Of course,_ he thought. _Of course. Why didn't I think of it sooner?_

_"__Calypso," _he uttered in a harsh whisper.

"Eh?"

"Calypso!" James said in a louder voice. "Where is she? Still on the ship? I need to speak to her, immediately."

"That… might present a teensy smidgen of a problem. She's gone. Released back into the cosmos to do what a sea goddess will." Sparrow winced when James rounded on him and stalked forward until they were face-to-face.

"You did _what?"_

"No, no, not _me._ Weren't me who did the releasing! _Barbossa!"_ Sparrow protested, holding up his hands just in front of James' chest as if he could keep him at bay without quite touching him. "Barbossa set free the scorned goddess. Ye wish to parlay with _her_, send yer quarrels to _him_."

James appraised him suspiciously, but he couldn't detect any deception in the pirate's dark eyes.

_"__Fine,"_ he snapped, causing Sparrow to slightly flinch, as if he had expected a blow to the face instead of a pithy word. James stomped past Sparrow, not bothering to warn him not to lay a hand on Ona. Sparrow might play the fool, but he was hardly stupid, and he could well imagine what James would do to him.

There were some benefits to being an immortal crewmember on a cursed ship, after all.


	35. Mother

_**James comes face-to-face with the divine.**_

_**AKA How I Met Your Mother**_

* * *

When James returned after his strange but oddly agreeable conversation with Barbossa, he stood next to the bed for a moment before proceeding. There was every chance in the world this wouldn't work, and only one that it would. And even if Barbossa's idea _did_ yield results, it could easily be the kind that left them in worse straits than before.

But he had to try. He owed her that much.

James lifted Ona from the bed as gently as he could, finding her dress was still cool and damp from the plunge they had taken earlier, not to mention the downpour from the violent storm. A storm that had, apparently, been manufactured by the entity he was about to face if all went according to plan.

Sparrow and Gibbs watched from nearby—a look of worried trepidation on the latter's face, a dubious frown on the former's.

As James passed them, Ona's limp form carefully cradled in his arms, Sparrow said, "Hoping this one good deed is enough to redeem a man of a lifetime of wickedness?"

James hesitated, his jaw tightening as he contemplated sending Sparrow a parting gift in the form of his clenched fist. But then he moved on, ignoring the jab that had cut too deep to not contain edges of the truth.

The_ Dutchman_ was pulled up alongside the _Pearl_, lashed together with ropes and hooks so James could easily cross using a gangplank. Barbossa insisted this had to be done on the _Dutchman_, and Sparrow was only too happy to hear there would be no arcane rituals happening on _his _ship.

When James arrived in the captain's quarters, William Turner and Barbossa were already there. The room was just as ominous as James remembered, though much of the grimy crust and barnacle growths were now gone. The organ still spanned the rear hull of the ship, and the light filtering through the opaque windows was as eerie as ever.

The black tallow candles placed in an oval on the floor only lent to the atmospheric feel of heathen deities and old, forgotten magics.

_This had better work,_ he thought as he carefully placed Ona within the confines of the candles. Barbossa had assured him that despite being freed, Calypso could be contacted and appealed to for a boon.

_If she's feelin' so inclined, and isn't still… nursin' old grudges,_ Barbossa had said with a sly smirk.

_Yes,_ James had said dryly. _Because gods are often known for their ability to overlook slights, imagined or otherwise._

_Think of it this way,_ Barbossa had mused, placing a gnarled hand on James' shoulder that he had immediately wanted to shake off. _Ye'll be appealin' to her to save her child, one which was run through by Jones' own hand. If anythin', ye'd be visited by her wrath for _not _tryin' to save the girl._

James hadn't found that point very convincing. Gods weren't known for their logical thinking or reasonable natures, either. Calypso could just as easily blame James for Ona's state as she would Jones, and he had half a mind to agree with her.

After Ona was placed on the ancient floorboards, James moved a stray blond hair out of her face. _Hold on for just a little while longer. Please,_ he asked in a silent plea.

"Stand back," Barbossa said, his lips pulled into an amused grin. "This part can be a bit… precarious."

"And what is it we are doing, exactly?" James asked, scowling as he turned to look at the older pirate. He trusted Barbossa about as much as he trusted the merciful whims of the one they were trying to contact.

"Provoking a god," he answered, his smile full of dirty teeth. "So ye best hold on to yer breeches, Admiral. This ain't no place for the faint o' heart."

Before James could answer, Barbossa gave a nod to Turner and said, "Speak the words I dictated to ye, and speak them true." The young man stepped forward and faced the circle of black candles, bracing himself for whatever he was about to do.

"I call upon Tia Dalma," he announced to the room in a firm, clear voice. "I call upon the Mother of the Waters. I call upon the daughter of Atlas and the wife of Poseidon. I call upon Calypso. Hear my prayer so I may commune with She who is as untamable as the sea."

James expected the cabin to quake, the sea to broil with rage, and the heavens to part in a deluge of destruction. Instead, everything remained exactly as it was. A great calamity of nothing took place. He exchanged a look with Turner, the young man's expression reflecting James' inner perplexity.

Barbossa, however, remained perfectly still, looking somewhat ridiculous in his plumed hat as he seemed poised, on the verge of something.

"Wait…" he spoke in a raspy whisper. "Wait…"

As if waiting for just the right moment, the cabin plunged into shadowlands as the candles snuffed out as one.

_"__Be ye warned, blacksmith's apprentice,"_ spoke a voice that seemed to come out of the very air. James was filled with instant, intangible dread. _"Deh last captain of dhis ship did not fare me wrath so well."_

James and Turner both looked behind them to the origin of the voice, but the cabin wall stood solid and resolute. The next time the bodiless voice spoke, it came from all around them, echoing off the damp chamber walls and into James' very soul.

_"__No longer do I answer to deh beck and call of men. Perhaps… ye be needin' a reminder why that be so?"_

James felt a chill across his skin, and the next breath that moved past his lips was visible. The temperature in the cabin had to have dropped several degrees in a matter of seconds.

"I mean no disrespect, Calypso," Turner answered, and James had to give him credit for sounding so calm in the face of such supernatural danger. "We ask… a favor of you."

Mist crawled across the floor, gradual with smoky sinister intent, and once it reached the middle of the cabin it rose and coalesced into a vague form. The form solidified into the physical manifestation of what James could only assume was Calypso. The mist clung to her body like a gown of immaterial fabric, gossamer and ever-changing. Beautiful and terrifying, much as the woman before them was. Her eyes were dark and unknowable, otherworldly, and they reminded him quite suddenly of Ona.

Thankfully, the goddess turned her unfathomable gaze on Turner, and James found it easier to draw breath.

"I am fond of ye, William Turner, so I not be killin' ye yet." Her lips parted in a smile that was sharp and devouring. "What is it ye want from—"

Her words cut short as her dark gaze went past Turner to settle on the circle of unlit candles. Her striking face fell into something like sorrow, and she moved past them to enter the circle, lowering onto her knees next to Ona's side. She reached out and brushed the limp hair from her forehead, much as James had done moments before.

"Speak the name of the one who did this," she commanded in a low tone, her back to them so James could not see the suffering and misery on her expression. He didn't need to—he could imagine it all too well.

"You know his name," Turner answered, somber. "Davy Jones."

The noise given by the sea goddess was terrible and sorrowful, starting as a low moan and rising into a mournful wail.

When James moved towards her, Turner tried to grab his arm, and Barbossa hissed at him to not do whatever he was about to do. He ignored Barbossa, weaved around Turner, and came to a halt on the other side of Ona's still form. He carefully kneeled there, a mirror of the sea goddess on the other side.

"Can you save her?"

Calypso slowly raised her head, and when her midnight eyes met his for the first time, it took every ounce of James' willpower not to flee. There was something in those eyes beyond his ability to ever describe, and he felt very, very small.

She observed him for a long moment, as if the entirety of his worth was being weighed, and he prayed he was not found wanting.

"Is dhis the favor you seek?" she asked, slow and purposeful.

James swallowed nervously but never broke eye contact.

"It is."

"And why do ye seek it?" Calypso inquired, her head slightly tilted. "What is my child to you?"

The words came easier this time.

"Ona has saved my life. Many times over. I owe her a debt."

Calypso gave him another of those long, piercing stares. He forced himself not to fidget or even blink.

"What are ye willin' to give in return? What price will ye pay, James Norrington?"

The fact she knew his name should have been the least alarming aspect of the situation, but he still felt a jolt of fear shoot down his spine.

"What do you require?" he asked, his voice somehow steady.

Her sharp grin answered him, sweet to the point of poisonous. "What if I want yer heart? Yer body? Yer _soul?_ What if I want yer eternal torment and suffering? Would ye give it to spare she from death?"

"Is that what you are asking of me?" James responded. His voice slightly wavered this time, but he never looked away.

Finally, Calypso dropped her gaze back to the woman before them, and she reached out a hand to caress her cheek with the back of her fingers.

"For what we want most…" she spoke in a low, melancholy voice, "dhere is a cost must be paid in deh end." She lifted her gaze to him, dark eyes sharp with suffering. "Will ye pay it, James Norrington?"

Would he? What if the price was his own life? The thought made him almost want to laugh. His life hadn't been worth much to him as of late, so how could he even begin consider its cost now? And if he was being completely honest with himself, what was James' life in comparison to Ona's? What had he done to earn the right to draw breath while she was denied another? Who was he to consign her to death while he continued on, doing what, exactly? Help ferry the dead to the next world? Any sailor worth their salt could do that. Or if, somehow, he was freed and could return to his former life as a naval officer, what would his life be worth then? He would be tasked with hunting down the very pirates who had freed the sea of Lord Beckett's tyranny. Pirates he himself had once been aligned with in that fateful battle above the maelstrom.

The answer was startling clear.

"I will pay whatever price you demand," he answered, dropping his gaze, the ache in his heart growing stronger as he looked upon Ona's pale, gaunt face. "Just… save her. Please."

Suddenly afraid Ona was no longer breathing, her lips having turned an alarming shade of blue, he reached out toward her face. Calypso snatched his hand and pulled him forward, nearly tipping him off balance. James lifted his head and met her gaze when he couldn't free himself from her steel-forged grasp.

"My price be this," she intoned, voice as unyielding as her grip. "A man placed a curse upon her, stealing the gifts I had bestowed. A man mortally wounded her, seeking to use her death as a sword against me. A man must right dhese wrongs by returning dhat which was taken from her. And a man must sacrifice everything to do so."

"I don't… understand," James said truthfully, wincing as she painfully squeezed his palm with her thumb.

"Break deh curse," Calypso spoke, louder this time. James felt the wood under his knees begin to tremble, and the ship groaned as it too began to shake. "Restore her power. Return my daughter to deh sea. You will save her, but you will lose her. She must not remain in the world of men. That is my price, and if ye fail to pay it, it will not be only you who _suffers."_

This last word was accompanied by a deep rumble as the ship swayed precariously. But James ignored everything; the ship, the alarmed responses of his companions, even Ona herself. The only thing he saw were the midnight eyes of a god.

"How do I do this?" he asked, his quiet voice drowned out by the cacophony of groaning wood and the breaking of nearby lanterns.

But she had heard. Calypso's eyes were bright like black fire, her grin not something of this world.

"Take her home… James Norrington."

She vanished in a whirlwind of smoke and mist, the pressure on his hand disappearing in an instant. The shaking of the ship receded into a tremble, and then faded into silence.

The candles flickered back to life. Ona opened her eyes, propelled herself upwards into a sitting position, and gave a great, heaving gasp.

* * *

**_many of you have been waiting for Calypso to arrive so i hope i didnt disappoint. this isnt the last we've seen of her by any means._**

**_thank you for all of your reviews as this part of the story comes to an end. but no worries, i have a special announcement coming up soon :)_**


	36. The Breach

She didn't know where she was, only that it was dark and filled with strange, unpleasant dreams. Sometimes she heard voices, one she recognized and others she did not. But even the voice that sounded familiar to her was of no help to soothe her frayed mind. She couldn't remember who it belonged to, the face an obscure blur that faded in and out of focus. Wanting to reach out to it, she extended her will and tried to hold onto it, to make it clear and visible, but each time it slipped through her grasp.

She had the impression something terrible had happened. What it could be, she did not know, nor could she guess. Her mind rose and sank through murky waters, the surface always above her, glittering with dancing sunlight. Below her, a cold, dark abyss where she somehow knew death awaited her.

Ona struggled between the two worlds, reaching upwards toward salvation but never able to breach the surface. She didn't know how long she lingered there, trapped between light and dark in an endless sea. It could have been a single moment in time or across the span of eternity. Perhaps she had always been there. She had memories of some kind of life, but they were just as distant and untouchable as the surface above.

She waited. And waited. Voices came and went, reverberating through the cold water. And still she waited, drifting ever downward, so slowly at first she didn't notice until the light of the surface began to fade with distance.

And then, something changed. The surface churned and then broke as a hand plunged into the breach, reaching down for her. The arm it belonged to was lean and strong, the skin dark like velvet, bronzed in the watery light.

Ona's heart surged with recognition and a deep longing she hadn't known for decades.

_Mother!_ Her words became trapped in bubbles, drifting upwards in languid swirls. _Mother!_

She was sinking faster now, the cold water around her feet and ankles sharp and unpleasant, and she reached skyward while kicking her legs as hard as she could.

_Legs?_

She panicked and began to choke when she realized too late she couldn't breathe. Water rushed through her mouth and into her lungs, smothering her from the inside out.

Her vision blurred, her mind dimming like a spent candle, soon to be extinguished. She was drowning. Drowning where it should never be possible to drown. Her home was the sea. Her life was the waters.

Betrayal and sorrow were her last thoughts, salty and bitter like the seawater on her tongue. But the arm reached her, grasped Ona's in its strong grip, and drew her upwards in a rush of water.

Ona breached the surface and continued upward, heaving in lungfuls of air as she stared around her strange surroundings in growing panic. She didn't know where she was; some dark, dank chamber that smelled of mold and rotting wood and the briny sea.

Hands grasped her shoulders and she cried out, turning to face her attacker. Concerned sea-green eyes stared back at her, bordered by a mass of brown hair and the dark line of a sharp brow.

"Ona! _Ona!_ You're all right!" The owner of those eyes tried to calm her, his hands still firmly clasped on her, holding her in place even as she fought to flee. "You're safe."

The face. The face she couldn't remember. It was _his _face.

"James Norrington?" Her question was released like a prayer, as if she dared not hope it was true and this wasn't another tortured half-remembered dream.

His expression, so taut with concern, now relaxed into something like relief.

"Yes. Yes, it's me," he reassured her. Something very odd happened; Norrington raised a hand to her cheek, cupping it within his warm palm. That was startling enough, but the brief smile he gave her was astounding to behold, and his green eyes were alight with… happiness? Joy?

"But I can hardly believe it's_ you_," he said, his smile becoming something more brittle as his eyes took in her entire face. "How are you feeling?"

_How was she feeling?_ What kind of question was that?

"What happened? Where am I?" she asked instead of answering. He removed his hand from her cheek when she looked around the room, finding it vaguely familiar. She spotted the two men she had missed earlier, and her muscles tensed before she recognized one of them. Feeling too vulnerable on the floor, she tried to stand, but her legs immediately wobbled and trembled with a weakness she hadn't felt since she had first tried to walk on land.

Arms wrapped around her before she could fall, and Norrington helped her regain her feet. She found she didn't mind his touch and close proximity. He was warm and solid, and she still felt chilled and disconnected from the world. It was frightening, and she found herself leaning into him, comforted by his presence. He didn't shy away from her, and instead kept one arm firmly around her shoulder, for which she was grateful.

"You are aboard the _Flying Dutchman_," the one she recognized as William Turner answered. He was eyeing her with concern, but there was a certain wariness there as well.

"The _Dutchman_?" she asked, confused. "Have we lost?"

"No. We won. Jones is dead," Turner responded, his lips set into a firm line. "He was killed when my knife pierced his heart."

"Then you have taken his place," Ona observed. Impressed at first, now she felt a wave of dread as she said, "You are Beckett's ally."

Turner winced at the accusation. "I was for a short time, and only as a matter of convenience. I assure you, it is no longer the case."

"Who amongst us hasn't allied themselves with Beckett at one time or another, hmm?" the man next to him said, his voice lilted with sharp amusement. Ona turned her head to look at him, wariness settling on her heart. She did not recognize him, but she recognized the style and demeanor of a self-proclaimed pirate.

"Either way," Norrington said from beside her, an arm still around her to keep her steady, "we destroyed the _Endeavor _and usurped the _Dutchman_ from Beckett and Jones both. And the armada has retreated. The war is over."

Over. It was really over. Jones was dead.

Jones…

A feeling, a suppressed memory, made her lower her hand to her stomach. There was a small slit in her dress, and when she looked down she saw the fabric stained with something dark. A distant ache, like a ghost's touch, flitted across her skin located directly underneath the mysterious tear.

"It be too soon to rest on our laurels, Admiral," the sneering pirate said. "Ye heard what Calypso said. Yer bound to fulfill yer oath, lest ye suffer the goddess' mighty wrath."

"Calypso?" Ona asked, directing the question at Norrington. "She was here?"

"Aye, she was here," the pirate said with a crooked smirk. "How do ye think ye made yer miraculous recovery after Jones redecorated yer innards?"

"That's enough, Barbossa," Turner interjected, his mouth pulled into a frown of dislike at the pirate. "Perhaps it would be best if you explained the situation yourself, Mister Norrington," he said in a kinder tone, nodding to them. "In privacy," he added, giving the one named Barbossa a glare to indicate he should leave first.

"As ye wish, Cap'n Turner," he said, tipping the brim of his hat toward the younger man with mock respect. As he walked out, he gave Ona a coy smile she didn't care for. By the tightening of Norrington's arm around her, he didn't seem to like it either.

Once they were gone and the cabin was theirs alone, Ona turned and stared directly up into Norrington's face. She was so close to him that her chest was pressed against his, but she didn't back away. She wanted answers, and she would receive them.

She opened her mouth to speak, but then paused. Something was very different about him, and it took her too long to realize what it was.

Ona reached forward, grabbed the front of his shirt, and ripped it open.


	37. Change of Course

James exhaled in relief when Turner and Barbossa left the captain's quarters. It would be difficult enough to explain to Ona what had happened without an audience, especially an audience of that sort.

His next breath, however, caught in his throat when he looked down and found her staring straight up at him with her piercing blue gaze. James hadn't realized how much he had missed her intense presence until that moment. But she gave him an odd look, as if she was searching for something in his appearance, and then she reached upward, grabbed the neckline of his shirt, and proceeded to try and rip it open.

James nearly choked on his own shock.

"The curse! It's gone!" she exclaimed in wonderment, feeling along his collarbone and neck with her fingers. Fingers which had warmed considerably from their chilled state, and which now seemed to set his skin ablaze.

"Yes, yes it is," James responded hastily, feeling his cheeks flush. He carefully took her wrists in his hands so she would stop running her hands all over him. It was_ incredibly_ distracting. "The crewmen of the _Dutchman_ apparently need not be monsters. They just became that way under Jones' captaincy. They needn't be held in servitude, either. Turner said only those who wish to serve may stay, and every man aboard is here because they wish to be."

Ona slowly lowered her hands and dropped them at her side, but she still looked up at him curiously.

"Then why are you still here?"

Her question, simple on the surface, left James mired in a bog of complexities.

"Well…" He cleared his throat and tried to find the correct words he wished to say. "Though Barbossa lacks any semblance of tact and decorum, he was right about what Jones had… had done to you. Do you remember?"

Ona looked down and ran her fingers across the stained tear in her dress. The gesture created an ache in his chest, directly where his heart was.

"I remember. And I remember how I failed to kill him," she said, her words sharp with bitterness. It hurt James to hear; he placed his hands back on her shoulders, delicately, as if he believed she would fall to pieces under their weight. It was amusing to think, considering how he had no doubt she was one of the strongest individuals he knew.

"You're here. You're alive. Jones isn't. I would say that's a victory, wouldn't you?"

She raised her head and met his eye, his expression searching and almost vulnerable.

"Tell me what happened after."

So James recounted the battle, how Sparrow saved Turner's life by using his hand, holding the knife, to stab the heart. He recalled how the _Dutchman _and the _Pearl _worked in tandem to decimate Beckett's flagship, and how the Royal Navy had fled afterwards after having decided facing the entire pirate fleet was not worth the effort.

How strange it was for James to see the nation he had given most of his life to as the villain in this story.

"And then Turner called upon Calypso to save you, and she did so, healing the wound Jones had inflicted upon you."

Ona's expression was quite different than he would have expected. It was grim rather than relieved or hopeful.

"What did she ask in return?"

James felt like a fish flopping on a sandy shore, unable to find his way back into safe waters.

"How do you know she did?" he asked, evasive.

"Gods do not grant boons for free," was all she would say on the matter. James gave a sigh and rubbed his forehead, hoping to relieve the tension there.

"She was… circumspect on the exact price to be paid. But she did make it clear that you were… rendered powerless by someone else. Is that true?"

Her lips formed into a thin line as she said, "It is. It happened nearly three decades ago, cast by a pirate my sisters and I had crossed. Franklin, he… he found me soon after that."

Her face fell at remembering the loss of her companion, but she pressed onward. "What else did she tell you?"

"Just that she demands your former powers be restored, and once they are, you should… return to the sea." James elected not to tell her the strange part about him possibly having to sacrifice everything. There was no need to worry about that until it was clear what _everything _entailed.

"Did she say how this is to be done?" she asked, brows creased with focus.

"Only that we should take you home," James said slowly.

Ona narrowed her eyes. "That's all she told you?"

"I was hoping you could shed some additional light on what she meant," James answered, feeling sweat bead on his forehead at her intense scrutiny. There was no possible way she could know he wasn't giving her the entire story. At least, that's what he told himself.

"Perhaps start by telling me where it is you call home?"

"That depends," Ona responded, her voice gone quiet. "My home since I've lived as a human was aboard the _Mariner's Lament_. My home in my previous life, I do not know."

James frowned. "I'm sorry, previous life?"

She looked up at him, her eyebrows raised as if in surprise.

"Of course. You know how our kind come into being, don't you?"

"Not… particularly," James responded, feeling the fool even though most believed mermaids were not real, let alone possessed intimate knowledge about them. Ona studied his features, as if checking to see if he was teasing her.

"Well, our kind, which you know as mermaids, are not born. We were mortal once. Human. We are those lost at sea." Her eyes dropped somewhere across his chest, her eyes distant. "Most of us had violent deaths, our bodies disposed of in the currents. When a mermaid finds such a body, they can… bring them back."

James blinked at her, stunned. "And you… you were resurrected?"

She raised her head to meet his eye once more, expression thoughtful. "It's not quite like returning a person's soul to a corpse. We are… different. Changed. Imbued with the magic of the sea. We retain no memories of our past; all we know is this new life. After we acclimate to our changed forms, we roam the seas in pods, doing what we will."

"Yes," James responded in a low voice. "I've heard the tales."

Ona gave him a reproachful look. "Not all of us ravage ships and destroy the lives of men. Many chose to save them."

She didn't say which she path she had chosen, and James didn't ask. He was not one to judge someone's past misdeeds. His own record would have been a strike against him.

And besides that, the coward in him didn't want to know.

"So, Calypso most likely didn't mean your home during your previous mortal life. What about your life as a… a mermaid?" James asked, still having trouble even now using the word in any serious context.

"Yes," Ona said, her eyes brightening in a way that James rarely saw. "Though trying to determine my home as a mermaid is even less useful. The ocean in its entirety was my home."

"Is there a… merfolk town or city of some kind? A place you gather in large numbers?" he asked, realizing how ridiculous his question must have been from the dubious look on her face.

"A city? Under the water?"

"I know, I know, it was a rather stupid thought, wasn't it?"

"I—no, actually. You might have the right idea." She seemed to be speaking to herself more than him now as she said, "A place where we gather in large numbers…" Her lips curled into a smile as she shook her head. "Of course. Why didn't I think of it? Whitecap Bay!"

James was so enthralled by the sight of her smile that it took a moment for him to process the words _Whitecap Bay_, and when he had, a stone dropped in his stomach.

_"_Whitecap Bay," he repeated in a strained voice. "I know the place. Or at least, I've heard terrifying stories about the cove."

"Yes. I suppose you have," Ona responded in a quieter voice. She stepped away from him and James allowed his arm to drop from around her shoulder. He had to restrain himself from reaching toward her, which struck him as very odd considering he had never been the tactile sort before.

"Men of the sea know not to venture into the bay for fear of being dragged overboard and… eaten by my sisters." Ona hugged her arms to herself, as if shielding herself from the world. Or perhaps, from him. James resisted the urge to offer her comfort, knowing it would not be wanted, and besides that, it would hardly be appropriate. Now that the danger had passed and Ona was well again, James would have to distance himself from her, both emotionally and physically.

James knew this, and yet, the reality was much harder to accept than he thought.

"Perhaps Whitecap Bay would be a good place to start, then," James offered, his tone kind to try and show her he didn't hold her personally responsible for the nature of her people.

"It will be dangerous. There's a reason why my sisters are particularly aggressive there," she said, turning half-way towards him. James could see the frown on her lips. "We have been protecting the island for tens of thousands of years. It's not just a place of gathering—it's also the home of a fount of power. I believe humans refer to it as the Fountain of Youth."

Ona had delivered all of this as if she had been reciting the history of the economics of Spain instead of divulging one of the greatest mysteries of the seas.

"I apologize, but, can you repeat that?" he asked faintly.

"Whitecap Bay is the home of what you call the Fountain of Youth?" Ona repeated, her unsure tone stating is a question.

"Oh, you must be joking."

She tilted her head at a slight angle, brow creased in a way he found wholly endearing.

"Ona," James said with a sharp exhalation of air that could have been a laugh, "I can believe quite a lot of things at this point, considering all I have seen and experienced, but… a fountain of eternal life?"

"It doesn't give eternal life," Ona said while deepening her frown. "It's not meant for humans at all, but they have found a way to twist its purpose and use it for themselves."

"How so?" he asked, having a suspicion he wouldn't like the answer. He was right.

"Well…" she said, haltingly. "Humans have discovered a way, using the fountain, to steal the life of another. Taking all the years they would have seen had they been allowed to live out the rest of their days. It is powerful but profane magic."

James felt a chill seep into his spine. _And a man must sacrifice everything._ Calypso must have known about the Fountain, what it truly did, and now that James examined his memory more closely, her intense gaze held new clarity for him.

"Perhaps the power of the Fountain itself will break the curse?" James offered, striving to keep his tone open and inconspicuous.

Ona gave him a thoughtful look and said, "Perhaps. The Fountain has always been a source of restoration for my kind. It… makes sense that it could have the power to break the curse."

James nodded, satisfied that either way, Whitecap Bay was their correct destination. He could only guess at what destiny it held for them, but there was no doubt it was the right course.

"I'll tell Turner our new heading." James turned to leave, but then hesitated and looked back at Ona. She returned his gaze with a questioning one of her own. "You should… get some rest. I doubt the _Dutchman_ has much in the way of amenities, but we're still attached to the _Pearl_, and I know Sparrow won't deny you food and board."

James knew it, because while Sparrow was a pompous ass and a filthy scoundrel, he was also predictable. He wouldn't turn away a pretty woman in need.

That thought filled James with an unexpected dose of jealous anger. Unsurprising, though, considering Sparrow and Elizabeth's past interactions.

_Elizabeth._ He hadn't thought about her since—

"I've slept long enough," Ona answered dourly. But then her eyes warmed, losing their icy chill, and she said, "But food sounds very agreeable." She walked passed him but paused as she reached the doorway, placing her hand upon the frame as she looked over her shoulder.

"Thank you, James Norrington. For… everything."

And then she disappeared through the doorway, leaving James alone with his conflicted emotions and confused feelings. It would take him a long while to sort them out and come to terms with everything that had happened.

But there was one thing James did know, felt with a certainty he had not experienced in a long time. If the rest of his years, his_ immortal_ years, would free Ona from the curse placed upon her, James found it a fair price to pay.

* * *

_**As you could prob tell from this chapter, im setting the stage for part 2! Which is also my big announcement! Im almost done with writing the outline as we speak. On Stranger Tides here we come***_

_***with massive changes and rewrites**_


	38. Daft (But Not Like Jack)

"I'm sorry." Jack smiled genially, sure he had heard incorrectly. "I must have a great glob of wax stuck in me ears. Did you just say you want to sail to the _Fountain of Youth?"_

Norrington frowned at him. Jack didn't mind—it seemed to be the go-to expression for the former-commodore-former-admiral when he was looking at Jack.

"You heard correctly, Sparrow," he responded, a muscle twitching in his cheek. "That is what I said."

"Thought so," Jack said with a nod. "Lost yer minds, the both of you. Didn't know that was part of the curse of the _Dutchman."_

"Tia Dalma—Calypso—_did_ say to return Ona to her home," William Turner chimed in unhelpfully. "Whitecap Bay is a reasonable destination for our intentions, and if Ona says it's also where the Fountain of Youth is hidden…" William looked up at Jack, pleading with those big doe eyes that Jack had always found to be unfairly endearing.

_Even as a captain, yer still that earnest boy I found at a blacksmith's forge,_ Jack thought fondly. _It's disgustin'._

"So go find the Fountain yerselves," Jack said, raising his hand to examine his fingernails. "Don't see why ye'd drag me into this nonsense."

"I would have thought you would be the first to jump at the opportunity to seize eternal life and glory," Norrington said dryly. Jack sent him a sweet smile.

"I believe the never-ending chase for honor and redemption falls under _your _purview, former-Admiral."

Norrington looked like he might stroll across the captain's cabin and strike him across his jaw, so Jack held up his hands in placation and added, "I've had me fill of mythical beasts and legendary treasure. Anymore of that balderdash and I'm more than like not to survive it a third time. Fourth time?" He counted on his fingers, realizing he'd lost track of his encounters with the supernaturally ridiculous.

"We need the _Pearl,_ Jack," William stepped between them, not so daft that he couldn't see the tension between the two men. "We need it because Ona cannot stay aboard the _Dutchman."_

"Ah, right," Jack said, pointing his finger at William. "You've got a new job with a new master to please."

"Exactly," he responded, all seriousness. "We still have souls that need ferrying, especially after we just sunk the _Endeavor_. But we cannot ignore Calypso's other mandate, either. Our responsibilities must have balance." William glanced at Norrington. The boy wasn't subtle about it, and the former admiral looked away, his jaw muscles tightening hard enough that Jack could see them flexing.

"Ye must be _very _fond of the girl," Jack said with even less subtlety than William. "I suppose it's good ye've moved on from pining over dear Lizzie. Healthy. I'm proud of you, Jimmie."

Norrington scoffed in disgust and turned away, folding his arms over his chest as he stared out of the rear windows, probably so he wouldn't be tempted to hit Jack. Also a common theme between them, and Jack was almost comforted by the fact some things, at least, never changed.

"Will you agree to it or not?" William interjected. Jack appraised him while raising an eyebrow. He had to admit, the whole dashing-swashbuckler bit, complete with the jagged scar across his heart, was a good look. A _great_ look.

_Bugger,_ he thought in annoyance. He couldn't turn down the kid. Never had been able to, really.

"You do realize the complicated implications of taking a shipful of ne're-do-wells and scoundrels to a fountain of immortality, yeah?" Jack shot back, tone dripping with skepticism.

"Oh no, it gets better," Norrington answered, looked over his shoulder to give Jack a dour look. "The Fountain is not a source of eternal life. It's a sacrificial alter."

"Come again?" Jack asked faintly, blinking rapidly. Norrington flashed him one of his half-grins, the kind that danced on the edge of a blade, and he turned around to face Jack fully.

"To acquire years beyond what nature intended, one most steal said years from another. And not just some years. _All_ the years."

"Ah," Jack responded, swallowing. "I see. Not exactly what I would describe as _better,_ though."

"There's no need to be squeamish now, Sparrow," Norrington said with an arrogant drawl. "With how many times you've tried to sacrifice Turner, I suspect trying to steal his life would be no more exciting than your typical Tuesday."

William looked like he was going to protest, but Jack simply smiled and said, "No need to fret, former-Admiral. Our dear William is immortal, as are you, so you need not worry about me stealin' yer years. Ye may actually have some to spare if you were feelin' generous…"

"Absolutely not—"

"Jack, please—"

Jack raised his hands in surrender and said, "Can't blame a bloke for trying."

Norrington rolled his eyes. William sighed tiredly. And Jack said, "Course I'll help. It's not as if I've got much else to do at the moment, though I do need to make a stop along the way."

The immediate suspicion on their faces was nearly insulting.

"In case you didn't notice, I've got holes blown in me ship," Jack said irritably. "Not to mention stocking up on supplies and offloadin' me new guests. Unless," he speculated with a coy smile, "ye'd like the survivors of the _Endeavor _to come along with us?"

"That's the last thing this world needs," Norrington muttered angrily, no doubt upset about a particular survivor Jack had in his hold right at that moment. Jack could sympathize with the sentiment, all things considered, but letting naval officers drown was so wasteful when living prisoners could be bartered to the Crown.

"What about Barbossa?" William asked abruptly. Jack frowned. That was a bit of a pickle, and one Jack couldn't really see a way out of. Not yet.

"As much as it pains me to say, I see no other choice but to take him along," Jack offered with a wince. "If he hasn't figured out where we're goin' by now, he will soon, wily bastard. Better to keep him with us than have him run off to hire another crew and try to beat us to the island."

"I think that's ill-advised," Norrington argued, because _of course_ he would. "We can't trust him. And if we did set him loose, no one would believe his tales of the Fountain, anyway. And only a death-bound fool would search for Whitecap Bay."

"Like us, then?" Jack responded with a chipper smile. Norrington sent him a scowl. They were going nowhere, and Jack knew it.

"Look," Jack said, trying to adopt his most diplomatic, 'we're all friends here' tone, "I'm no happier about this than you are, but I'd rather have Barbossa close where we can keep an eye on him than have him sail off to Tortuga, runnin' his mouth for any knob to hear."

William gave a solemn sigh. "I… agree with Jack."

Norrington looked like he wanted to say something very cutting, but instead replied, "You're the captain," in a strained voice.

William looked at him in sympathy and moved forward as if he was going to comfort the man, but Jack popped in between them and smiled gaily.

"I feel rather good about this," he said happily. "You, me, the open ocean. It's like the gang's back together again. Well, all except dear Lizzie." He sniffed. "Where is Her Royal Highness, anyway? I know _she_ would love to go on an adventure to save a mermaid and discover the Fountain of Youth."

Now William looked like he might throw a fist at Jack, but that wasn't new either.

"If we're done here, then Mister Norrington and I need to depart for the _Dutchman."_

"Go, go," Jack said with a flap of his hand, already approaching his alcohol cabinet across the room. "Ferry yer merry dead. You can find us at Shipwreck Cove by the end of the day."

"Thank you, Jack," said William, which was what Jack expected.

"Yes," Norrington said stiffly. "Thank you."

Now that, Jack hadn't expected. Not from Saint James Norrington. But when he looked over his shoulder, Jack found his cabin completely empty. Not a soul in sight, and his cabin door most definitely had not been touched.

"Hate it when they do that," Jack said with a slight shiver, turning back to pour him something that would warm away the gooseflesh on his arms. "Truly, bloody hate it."

* * *

_**we're approaching the end folks! two more chapters to go and im not sure how i feel about it. i wish this story could just go on forever**_


	39. Pale Ice

Ona didn't know how Norrington explained the situation to Turner, but he was agreeable enough to the journey. Surprisingly, so was Captain Sparrow. He had seemed wary of her at first, muttering under his breath about "women of the sea bein' just as lethal as those on land."

But after a few hours of watching her stand next to the railing while she looked out at the sea, he stopped avoiding her like she had the plague.

Ona wasn't entirely sure of him, either. His smiles were too quick and his demeanor was carefree to the edge of negligence. But his coal black eyes saw much. Perhaps, too much.

Sparrow had only one condition for sailing for Whitecap Bay: to stop first at Shipwreck Cove to fully repair the damage to the ship, pick up supplies, and unload their prisoners. It turned out they had pulled up quite a few survivors from the _Endeavor _after it had been sunk to the bottom of the sea.

Ona wondered if anyone would take up residence in the ruined ship. Her kind often gravitated toward sunken vessels, using them as shelters along migration routes. She had once lived in a wrecked Japanese _Atakebune_ warship a hundred years ago, give or take a few decades.

Ona hadn't seen Norrington since she had come aboard the _Pearl_. The _Dutchman_ had turned and sail in a different direction soon after, and she assumed he was onboard, ferrying the souls of those who did not survive the battle. Jones was no longer the captain, but the ship still had a duty to fulfill, tasked by Calypso herself. In that way, her kind and the crew of the_ Dutchman_ were not so different. One ferried the souls of the dead, and the other gave the restless souls which didn't pass on a new life. They were both beholden to the Mother, and they could disobey her commands no more than the tides could resist the moon.

They reached Shipwreck Cove after the sun had set. The town itself was a sight to behold—a spire of stacked ships, reaching toward the heavens and sprinkled with a constellation of stars. The stars were, of course, no more than oil lamps, but their reflection across the dark water gave it a magical quality that left even Ona speechless.

Once they docked, Ona was invited along with the rest of the crew to eat supper at one of the taverns. Having lived on sailor's fare for the past few weeks, which had comprised of little more than hardtack and bumbo, she decided this was a fine idea.

The tavern was called the _Mermaid_. By Sparrow's amused expression as he looked between her and the stylized figurehead, which was more a caricature than an accurate representation of her people, she estimated he had chosen it with purpose. She wondered who else knew what she really was. There was James Norrington, of course. And William Turner. Apparently Sparrow was added to the list, as was the pirate Barbossa. He was the one she had been most wary of, as he seemed the sort to betray at the first sign such betrayal would be profitable.

The pirate in question stood up and raised a pint of rum when they were all seated and given their own mugs.

"Quiet down, quiet down ye _deck apes!"_ he shouted at them, waiting for them to settle before he resumed. "Though the happy couple not be here at the present time, let us raise a toast in honor of William Turner and Elizabeth Turner." He raised his mug and smirked, gold teeth glittering in the light. "May their matrimony bring them less misery than company of each other surely will."

Laughter and cheers rose around the room as mugs clashed together and hands patted shoulders and backs. No one cheered or laughed or knocked mugs with Ona. Ever since she had come onboard, the crew of the _Pearl _had been respectful but distant. Ona didn't know if that was due to the fact she was a woman, and most men at sea were adverse to her, or if it was because of her bloodied dress. She was sure she looked alarming and frightful, but she had no change of clothing. All of her possessions had been lost along with the _Mariner_, and she had hoped she would be able to find new clothing in Shipwreck Cove before they began their journey.

With that in mind, as soon as she had eaten her share of the offered stew, Ona slipped out of the tavern and away from the sound of laughter and the glow of comradery. She doubted anyone noticed her absence.

It felt good to simply _move._ She had spoken the truth to Norrington when she'd said she had slept more than enough, and the need to stretch her legs and strengthen her weakened muscles was at the forefront of her mind, as was finding a new set of clothing. The first mate, a kindly man named Joshamee Gibbs, had earlier slipped her a small sack of coins when they had docked and told her to "buy what a lady might need for a long, perilous voyage."

There was something about Mr. Gibbs. Perhaps the gray-and-white beard on his face or the crow's feet at his eyes. Or perhaps it was just the kindness he showed her, but when she looked of him, she thought of Franklin. The realization sent a sharp twinge through her chest, and she had to quickly turn away from him so he would not see the pain in her eyes.

The market of Shipwreck City was alive and well at this time of night. Pirates and smugglers of all shapes, sizes, and shades were to be found there, as well as women in lavish, gaudy-colored dresses, their faces painted like mythical maidens. More than one tried to catch Ona's eye, reaching for her while cooing or laughing behind their delicate handheld fans.

She found a tailoring shop, and intent on buying one dress, she came out with three. Along with the dresses, she had bought belts, linen shirts, another pair of boots, and undergarments. While she did not know much of fashion, and the clothing to be found at a pirate city was a far cry from what was probably the latest trend in London, she had fallen in love with these three pieces. Ona enjoyed the concept of wearing clothing, probably a byproduct of spending decades wearing nothing but her own skin, and she had often watched women of wealth from afar when the_ Mariner_ would make port. Their elegant dresses and hairstyles were fascinating to her, no less interesting than watching a luminescent cuttlefish light up the ocean floor, or a school of jellyfish paint the sea with vibrant pinks and yellows and blues.

On her way back to the _Pearl_, carrying her bundles wrapped in brown paper, she paused when she saw something curious. A line of men were being led down the gangplank, and in the light of the lamps the crimson and gold of Company marines could be seen.

Ona quickly sidestepped into the shadows, watching as pirates she didn't recognize led the marines, clearly prisoners by the evidence of the shackles around their wrists, onto the dock. One in particular drew her eye, his diminished stature and confident posture familiar.

_It can't be…_

The pirates led the captured marines deeper into the town, and Ona followed, staying at a distance and keeping to the shadows. They didn't go far—the marines were locked inside of a half-ship that seemed to be used exclusively as a jail. Three of its walls were the hull itself, while the fourth was covered in bars. The pirates didn't even bother to guard them, confident the captives would have nowhere to run.

Making a note of where the jail was located in relation to the dock, she quickly went back to the _Pearl_, dumped her packages onto the bed in the small room Captain Sparrow had loaned her, and donned one of her new dresses. She wanted to be smartly dressed for _this_ particular encounter.

After choosing the dress made of blue denim, her personal favorite, Ona left the _Pearl_ behind and returned to the makeshift jail. The marines were in a rough state, their expressions grim as they sat against the hull or paced within the confines of their prison. They looked up at her approach, and she recognized Lieutenant Groves among the upturned faces. His face was smudged with soot and dried blood, and she couldn't entirely blame him for the look he was giving her now, full of wary nervousness.

But there was a second man she recognized, one who was neither wary nor nervous. Somehow, even in torn silk and dirtied brocade, Cutler Beckett appeared every inch the lord he proclaimed to be.

Though what he was the lord of now, Ona didn't know, and she suspected he was less a commander now that she was. His armada had turned and fled, his king abandoning him to rot in a pirate jail. The situation could not be more different than the last time they spoke.

"Lord Beckett," Ona announced, coming to a stop several inches from the cell bars. He turned to look at her, his brows furrowed in confusion, and then his face smoothed into the self-assured expression she had come to know and loathe.

"Miss Sharp," Beckett responded, meeting her at a similar distance on the other side. "I had wondered if you survived your grievous wounds. I heard you were on death's doorstep."

"Only the threshold," she said, eyeing him pointedly. "Is it no longer tradition for captains to go down with their ships? Or is it Company policy to run away and surrender to the enemy on the off-chance they give quarter?"

Beckett gave her a familiar tight-lipped smirk, as if what she said had greatly amused him.

_"__Captain."_ He gave a light scoff at the word. "Speaking of, where is Captain Sparrow? I was expecting _him_ to take the pleasure of mocking his prisoners, not you. Norrington as well, though I suppose he has a short leash when it comes to the _Dutchman_."

"I've not come to mock," Ona said, ignoring the slight against Norrington. She thought she understood the game Beckett played now. She'd only known the man a short time, but she felt she knew him better than most. Beckett believed he was more intelligent and more cunning than his opponents.

But Ona had been the one who got away. He had set his sights on her, a prize unlike any other, and she had robbed him of that prize. In a way, she had won their game, or at least the first round of it.

"Pray tell," Beckett responded airily, moving forward and slipping his arms through the bars so he could brace them against his forearms. "Why have you come, then?"

"Curiosity."

Beckett raised an eyebrow. "Curiosity?"

"I wanted to know if my assumption was correct," she said. He gave a slight wave of his hand.

"Then by all means, let me assuage the burden on your mind."

Ona peered at him, somewhat pleased that she had guessed accurately that Beckett was too prideful to pass up the opportunity to expound on his knowledge and cleverness.

She turned away from him, pretending to think as she languidly paced in front of the bars.

"It took me some time, but I finally realized the reason why you wanted to recruit me to your side. And why you were so willing to divulge the secret to killing Jones." She paused, thoughtful again, but still looked away from him as she spoke. Ona peered at the walkways and bridges of the city spread out before her, watching for anyone approaching as well as to irk Beckett by not giving him her full attention.

"Yes?" Beckett verbally prompted her, a hint of his own curiosity shining through. She fought to keep her face neutral.

"You were grooming me to become your next Jones."

She turned toward him then and walked directly up to the bars at a slow pace, unafraid of the man on the other side.

"I was going to be his replacement," Ona explained, her voice low as she looked him straight in the eye. "From what I observed of you, you were always several steps ahead of everyone else. You wanted a contingency plan in case Jones was killed or somehow managed to take back his heart, removing all leverage you had over him. And I… was that plan."

Beckett's eyes shone with something like amusement, or perhaps even… pride.

"Very good, Miss Sharp," he practically purred. "Your wits do you credit. It's a shame I discovered you only after I had acquired Jones' heart." He leaned forward, his face barely inches from her as he whispered, "_You_ would not have lost to the likes of Jack Sparrow."

It was his tone rather than his words that made Ona draw back, disgust curdling her stomach. Beckett had sounded almost reverent, his words like a wistful caress. She clenched a fist and pressed her lips together, refusing to allow him this much control over her emotions.

"I am not your pawn," she replied in a harsh voice. "I am not yours to use. I never was."

Beckett didn't deny it, or proclaim her statement was wrong. Instead, he seemed to smile with his eyes more than his lips as he said, "When in the company of pirates, you may discover otherwise. I am not the only one who will find your talents useful and wish to capitalize on them. Is that not what Franklin did when he found you?"

Ona did something she hadn't done in nearly three decades. She hissed.

Beckett chuckled in delight at her reaction. The sound of it made the hairs on her arms stand on end.

"You believe you have won some victory over me," he said with quiet certainty in his pale eyes, "but I assure you, despite my current circumstances, you have done no such thing."

"I_ did_ beat you," she said, hovering so close to the bars she was nearly touching them. "Even if Norrington hadn't arrived, even if I had agreed to your plans, you would have never owned me. I control my own destiny."

Beckett gave her a look that said he didn't quite believe her.

"Destiny, Miss Sharp, is a lie we tell ourselves to feel more tolerable of our circumstances. No. It was _I_ who brought you onboard, and it was I who allowed you to leave unscathed. If I had wanted you dead, I would have ordered my men to fire upon you and Norrington both. But I didn't, because it's not what I wanted. As I said before, I wanted a partner. Not a prisoner."

"You are a liar," Ona growled, staring down at him with all the hatred she could muster. His words irked her, prodded her, made her temper rise faster than a lava flow within a mountain.

"Perhaps," he relented with a slight tilt of his head. "But I am not lying now. Not about this. You are so utterly convinced that I wish to do you ill that you're blinded to the truth."

"And what truth is that?" she asked, her tone acidic.

"The truth," Beckett said, his pale gaze intensifying, "that Jones would have tortured and murdered you. And it was not my former admiral, or Jack Sparrow, or any of the pirates who saved you. It was I who freed you from the _Dutchman's_ brig. It was I who gave you the opportunity of choices."

Ona snarled but otherwise didn't move, frozen on the spot as she listened to his terrible words.

"Jones gave you misery. All I wanted was to give you your life back—"

"You wanted to give me chains!" she interrupted him, her hissed words vehement as she glared at him through the bars. "Unseen but still binding!"

Beckett leaned forward so close she couldn't keep him in focus anymore, and he whispered, "You wore chains long before you met me. And it was not I who put them there."

Ona slammed her palm against the bars. Beckett moved back to a safe range, but he didn't flinch and he looked more triumphant than fearful. She turned away, knowing she was quickly losing control of the situation.

"You're really going to place your trust in the pirates?" Beckett called out to her, amusement in his tone. "Especially a selfish, thieving liar like Jack Sparrow?"

Ona paused. She could practically feel his smugness, his supposed victory over her losing her temper. She turned back around and approached the cell bars, leaning slightly forward so they could be at eye-level. She was so close to him she could see the miniscule detail of his cold, blue irises.

"'Trust actions, not words, and you will understand people better than they understand themselves.'"

Beckett's smile vanished, dropping from his face like a stone.

"It was good advice, Lord Beckett," she said, voice as smooth as silk. "And I took it to heart."

The satisfaction that curled in her chest was so pleasurable that she smiled to herself, expression hidden in the shadows as she walked away.

* * *

**_i couldn't kill Beckett, he's way too fun to write. he'll be back in the future, no worries there. one more chapter to go :))) thank you for all of your comments, i treasure them like Barbossa treasures Carina  
_**


	40. My Beloved Horizon

_**We've reached the end of Norrington's new beginning.**_

_**I would like to thank my beta readers thewonderginger and insidethemindoftrent. All the errors within are my own, because these guys rock.**_

_**And thank you to everyone who took the time to read and review this story. I'm continually impressed by the support I've gotten from the PotC fandom. I never thought my little story would get the attention that it did, especially considering it involves OCs. I'm so happy y'all love Ona and Franklin as much as I do.**_

_**See you for part 2!**_

* * *

Her victory over Beckett in their small battle of dominance was short-lived.

The repairs were taking longer than expected. Ona had been patient at first, grateful she had an opportunity to recuperate. Now, she was growing restless. That wasn't so unusual, but what was unusual was the loneliness that had seemed to strike her out of nowhere and filled her every thought.

Currently, she was looking up at the stars from the deck of the _Pearl_, almost a week after their arrival. No one was in sight, the crew taking the advantage of being docked to go out drinking, gambling, and enjoying the intimate company of others.

Ona indulged in no such activities, nor did she socialize with the crew or captain. She was isolated, utterly and completely. Alone, even on a ship filled with pirates. She knew barely any of them, and felt that even though they were polite to her, they would run in horror if they truly knew her story.

The _Dutchman_ had still not returned. Not that _that_ was a contributing factor to her loneliness, she told herself. No, if anything, she was feeling this way because a steadfast, constant part of her life had been ripped away only a few days ago.

Jones was dead. Finally dead. And Franklin has been avenged. But it did not satisfy her desire for vengeance. It did not raise the _Mariner_ and restore Franklin to life. And it did nothing to fill the empty space in her heart where his warmth and light had once occupied.

Ona gripped the gunwale hard enough to dig her nails into the tarred wood. It was her fault he had met such a fate, and she hadn't even been the one to end Jones' life. She had failed to keep him safe, and Franklin was … he was…

She bent forward over the railing, bracing her elbows against the wood as she struggled to breathe. A choked gasp escaped her throat, but the ocean gave no reply. It continued onward into the black night, apathetic to her suffering. It was not the sea she had known. It was a stranger to her now. Cold and indifferent.

This was the last assault in a long line of battery offenses. Ona felt something crack within her, and she raised her hands to cover her face, as if to stop herself from shattering like a figurine made of glass.

_I can't do this,_ she silently cried out._ I can't do this alone._

A single sob escaped. Just one. And then long arms wrapped around her, pulling her away from the railing and holding her in place against a warm, solid surface. She immediately stiffened, her muscles coiled to fight off her attacker, but then… she realized she _wasn't _being attacked. The arms were steadfast and brought her immediate solace. She recognized who they belonged to, the shape and strength of them familiar somehow.

_He_ was not cold and indifferent. He was warm and comforting, and exactly what she needed at that moment.

"James Norrington?" she whispered, a tremble in her voice. "When… when did you arrive?"

"Just now," he responded, his baritone resonating deep in his chest, making her shiver. "The _Dutchman_ is still a ways off, but I… I don't know how to explain it. I sensed something was… amiss. Ona, what's wrong?"

She had begun to tremble again. She couldn't stop it, no matter how hard she tried, and her heart raced in her chest as she shook like taut sails in a hurricane wind.

"Ona?"

His voice, so sincere and warm in her ear, was what finally broke her. Ona was tired of fighting to keep him at a distance because she was too afraid. Afraid of caring for someone only to have her heart ripped apart again.

"He's gone," she choked out, shuddering hard. _"_And it's all my fault. _All my fault."_ Her voice was so frail and brittle she hardly recognized it.

"It's not your fault," Norrington murmured into her hair. "It's not."

One mantra over the other. One broken and hoarse, the other smooth and comforting. One was winning over the other, and soon one ceased altogether.

She went silent and fully gave in to the embrace, letting the soothing voice wash over her, and she allowed herself to break. She'd never cried like this before. She'd never been held like this either—there had never been need for it. With Franklin watching over her, she'd never had reason to be afraid. Her largest concern had always been to protect him, just as he'd protected her. And now…

Now he was gone. And what was left? Who was she truly without Franklin Sharp?

"I couldn't keep him safe," she whispered tightly. "I'm to blame." She blinked through her tears to find her fingers grasping tightly to something rough. Stained navy broadcloth. Faded gold trim. Frayed embroidered buttonholes. He still wore his uniform. Maybe someday he wouldn't, but for now, it was familiar and comforting.

"No," he said into her ear in his rich, resonate voice, "you're not."

Ona clung onto Norrington's open coat as if she was drowning at sea, her cheek pressed against his chest, and he held her so carefully, but with strength, as if he alone would hold her together if he had to. One arm across her shoulders, the other along her back, it felt as though he _was_ holding her in one piece.

"I am," she said wearily. "If Franklin had never found me… if he'd never brought me onboard… none of this would have happened. I told him not to change our heading. I _told_ him to stay on course because I _felt _something. I couldn't even tell him what it was. I didn't know myself. Not until I saw… saw you. In the water."

"If you hadn't," Norrington responded, his voice so gentle but tinged with sorrow that it almost hurt to hear, "Jones would have found me. He would have had a hold on me long before the battle. I would have been just another one of his thralls, and who knows how things would have played out differently. You… kept me grounded, in difficult moments. You helped me hold on to myself. I know I… I can never repay that. And I can never make up for the Franklin's death. But I would like to try. Try and fix some of the damage my presence has caused."

Ona didn't know how to respond. It was all too complicated and painful and she had never been in this situation before. Norrington seemed to sincerely apologetic and genuinely saddened by what had happened to Franklin, but this whole endeavor to Whitecap Bay was asking too much of him. Her cursed life was her problem to solve, not his, and she did not wish more trouble on his head simply because he was tied to her out of guilt and obligation.

She took a shuddering breath, trying to get her emotions under control, which was in itself something new. But in the process of doing so, she breathed in… well, _him_. Perhaps it was because he had been in the water recently, or perhaps it was because of what he had become, but… Norrington smelled of the sea. He smelled of home.

She was struck by a sudden homesickness so strong she could barely breathe. She missed her waters, filled with forests of coral and thousands of species of multicolored sea life. She missed her sisters. She missed floating above the ocean floor, pretending for a moment that she was a bird in flight, soaring high above the land with no end in sight save the horizon.

In that moment, all she wanted to do was return home and forget about mankind and their hard, cruel world. But she couldn't. Because that would mean forgetting Franklin. Erasing all of his kindness and humor and caring words. She couldn't do that to him. She wouldn't. But that didn't answer the question of how she was supposed to live her life without him there. It seemed impossible.

She became aware of two things. One, she had started to cry again, silent tears spilling down her cheeks as she shivered in misery. And the second thing was equally as strange. Strange… but interesting. Norrington had moved his hand up from her shoulder and now cradled his fingers in her hair. He moved his hand gently atop her head, as if… petting her. It should have made her feel angry. Humiliated. Like she was some animal.

But it felt so… so pleasant. So comforting. She relaxed at the touch, and her shivers were reduced to infrequent tremors until they stopped altogether. He was so warm, even through the thick material of his coat, and it was a wonderful change from his previous cold, scaly skin. But his odd caressing was still a better panacea than anything she could have dreamed was possible.

_Is this why humans embrace each other so often? Why they always seem to crave physical affection?_ She had often wondered this, and she thought she now knew the answer as she involuntarily leaned into the touch.

Summoning her courage, Ona spoke, her voice coming out a low rasp.

"A part of me always feared I would be the death of him."

Speaking the words out loud caused a spear of pain to shoot through her chest, but it also lifted something from her shoulders. A weight she had carried ever since Jones' blade had pierced Franklin's heart.

"You weren't," Norrington said, voice much too kind for what she deserved. "If anything, you were his reason to live."

Ona slowly pulled back, but only so far as she could look up into his face. The candlelit lamps cast a faint glow on the left half of his face, leaving the other side in shadow. His gaze, or at least the half she could see, was full of intense sincerity and solemnness. As if he were afraid he had overstepped his bounds, but he didn't release her either.

From what she had observed, Norrington was made of contradictions. Perhaps she was as well. Not so long ago, she would have abhorred the idea of being so close to him.

But now…

Ona raised her arm and cautiously moved her hand towards his face. Norrington watched her movements, neither moving nor speaking. Carefully, so carefully, as if afraid she would hurt him, she touched her fingertips to his cheek. He was warm, so much warmer than he had been before, and she continually found this appealing.

The tips of her fingers moved downward, trailing across the rough hair that had grown in, covering the lower half of his face. Ona wondered what he had looked like in full naval regalia, bewigged and smooth-faced with his back as stiff as a board. It was difficult to imagine, because at the moment he looked the perfect personification of a man of fortune.

Norrington remained perfectly still. By the time Ona's fingers brushed across his chin, he seemed to hardly breathe. She had no real inkling what she was doing, or why she was doing it, only that she wanted to touch him. To _know _him. Understand what it was about him that captivated her thoughts and drew her to him like a moth to an oil lamp.

A noise sounded from the dark—a random creak of the hull, a footfall of a passing crewman, the creak of the swinging lanterns. Whatever it was, she snapped out of her strange state and forced herself to pull away. Heat flushed her cheeks against her bidding, and she could not bring herself to meet his eye, suddenly afraid of what she would see.

He didn't let her go far, though, and his voice held no sign of disgust or embarrassment.

"Everything will be all right, Ona."

Her eyes flickered up to his, instinctively drawn by his soft pleas, and she was trapped on the spot by his sea-green gaze.

There were contraptions made by man—large lights fueled by fire and whale oil—that could be turned onto the sea. Without fail, they lured her kind by the hundreds, enticing them and freezing them in place.

That was how it felt to stare into James Norrington's eyes.

"You'll see," he said quietly, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. It was almost enough to distract her from the brief flicker of sadness in his eyes.

Almost.

* * *

Hector Barbossa unfurled the ancient charts, laying it flat across one of the many navigation tables aboard the _Pearl._ He examined it closely for a moment before he began to manipulate the various movable inner circles. His lips spread into a crooked grin as he joined the words _Aqua de Vida_ together.

"The fates be with me this day, Jack," he crooned happily. "We're settin' sail fer the Fountain o' Youth, and with a mermaid guide at that. No need to steal the map now. After all, what be manmade charts compared to the ancient knowledge of the sea folk?"

Jack the monkey chirped in agreement, perched on his usual spot on Hector's shoulder. After reaching into a pocket and pulling out a peanut for Jack to eat, he stood from the captain's chair (he refused to refer to it as _Sparrow's chair_), and made his way on deck.

Jack the human (obviously the lesser of the Jacks) was already giving orders to set sail from Shipwreck Cove. Hector let him play the role, allowing him to believe he was the_ Pearl's_ one and only master, but she would be back in his grasp soon enough. He climbed up onto the fo'c'sle and stared out across the bow, breathing in and expelling out the briny sea air.

With a gentle touch along the railing, Hector looked out over the endless expanse of ocean and the equally endless horizon.

"And now, my beloved _Pearl_," he said with a crooked smile, "show me how you can soar."


End file.
